The night was deep, the small room dimly lit by a warm oil lamp. Du Heng carried the intoxicated boy to the low bed.
The lamp cast Xiaoman’s face in a deep flush. Lying flat, he squinted at the light. He licked his lips, perhaps savoring the taste of the rice wine or the memory of the kisses he had just planted on Du Heng’s cheek.
“Home already?” he mumbled groggily.
“You tell me,” Du Heng replied, pouring some water and moving toward him to help him drink.
His lips dry from the wine, Xiaoman licked them to stay moist. Half-closed eyes and flushed cheeks under the lamp rekindled Du Heng’s barely restrained desire, making his ears burn.
“Water… drink water…” Xiaoman squinted at him, clearly wanting it, yet Du Heng held the cup teasingly, drinking from it himself before handing it over.
Frowning, Xiaoman tried to sit up but found his limbs too weak, urging Du Heng again.
Whether teasing or annoyed, Du Heng did not immediately give him the water, and his shadow bent over Xiaoman’s on the wall.
Noses brushed, and the room held only the sound of water.
Unable to resist, Du Heng’s hand moved beneath Xiaoman’s clothing.
Xiaoman, still catching his breath, suddenly sat upright. “Stop—”
Du Heng, amused by the boy’s mixed signals, leaned closer.
“Ugh…”
Du Heng caught Xiaoman, nearly tipping him, and gently patted his back. After a while, Xiaoman grabbed his arm and lifted his head.
“I… I threw up,” Xiaoman admitted, his face still red.
“Then what else?”
“Don’t tell anyone—too embarrassing.”
Du Heng lowered his gaze, pressing his lips together.
“You’re worried about others knowing, but what about your husband?”
Qin Xiaoman let out a silly laugh, then patted Du Heng on the back to reassure him. “I’ll drink less from now on, I promise.”
Du Heng, still pale-faced, carried the boy to the washroom, heated water for a bath, and tidied the room. Fortunately, the weather had warmed, and a single bundle of firewood was enough to heat the water.
He carried in the bucket. Xiaoman, seated on a chair, nearly fell asleep. Du Heng helped him up. Staggering slightly, Xiaoman swayed, barely able to stand.
“How much did you drink to be this drunk you can’t even use your legs?” Du Heng asked.
Qin Xiaoman leaned against him, burying his head as he clumsily started undoing his soiled clothes. “It’s not the alcohol making me stumble… hic… it’s that you kissed me, and my legs went weak.”
Du Heng’s heart skipped. Xiaoman was usually reckless, and drunk, he spoke without filter.
He undressed Xiaoman and washed him, holding him close, the warm water splashing them both. Without a proper shower, the gourd ladle sufficed. Slowly, Xiaoman sobered, watching Du Heng patiently care for him, feeling moved that he hadn’t scolded or complained despite nearly being vomited on.
He clutched Du Heng’s hands, raising them to his neck, and planted a kiss behind his ear, continuing the interrupted affection from earlier.
Later, Xiaoman leaned at the window frame, bending over slightly…
That night, in the washroom, the intimacy felt fresh and exciting. Though slightly embarrassed to be elsewhere than a bed, both gave in to the moment. The next morning, they woke later than usual.
Du Heng had risen early but stayed still, watching the sleeping Xiaoman until sunlight filtered through the door and bedframe.
The first words he heard were: “I need to check the seedlings in the big field. The rapeseed we planted in spring has started to seed.”
Du Heng sighed, lightly flicking Xiaoman’s forehead. “Your mind hasn’t even woken up yet, and you’re already thinking about crops?”
Hangover fogging his head, Xiaoman half-opened his eyes, looping an arm around Du Heng’s neck. His deep, rough voice had the faintest note of teasing: “What else would a farmer think about?”
Du Heng withheld his retort, instead cupping Xiaoman’s face to press a kiss.
The rapeseed planted in March had already begun turning black at the tips. Du Heng hoped to harvest the first batch soon. If some were ripe while others still green, he’d have to do two rounds of collection. Over the past months, he had tended to the crops carefully—loosening soil, fertilizing, weeding—so early harvest promised some reward for his effort.
“I’ll get up and make breakfast. You rest a bit more. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Xiaoman felt a sweet warmth. Never before had he been treated like this. Snuggling against Du Heng, he murmured: “Okay.”
The weather in Linxia was mostly fair. This year, the climate was steady, and farmers were content.
Du Heng lit the fire to cook when a knock came at the door.
“The leftovers from yesterday. My father sent some over,” said Qin Xiaozhu, carrying a basket with a lid. Du Heng couldn’t see what was inside.
“Thank you.”
“Have you eaten breakfast? Come in and sit for a while.” Du Heng accepted the basket, feeling its weight. “We’re busy returning tables and benches. Do you want us to help later?”
Before Qin Xiaozhu could answer, he noticed Xiaoman emerging, hair tousled, fastening his clothes—clearly just out of bed.
The sun was already high, and his family usually rose earlier.
“Why aren’t you still in bed? What time is it?” Qin Xiaozhu scolded.
“I’m married now, naturally rising later. Only those still unmarried wake early,” Xiaoman replied.
Qin Xiaozhu pouted. “Someone unaware would think it was you who married last night.”
“The newlyweds have the bridal chamber. Those married longer still have chores. It’s different in name, but the work is the same,” Xiaoman said.
Qin Xiaozhu blushed, embarrassed, unable to argue further. He snorted and turned to leave, growing more irritated. Watching his second brother envy the eldest’s marriage only made him want to marry sooner himself.
Du Heng, holding the basket, stayed out of the quarrel.
Seeing Xiaoman, hair messy and cheeks flushed, reminded him of their indulgence the night before.
“You ran out without fixing your clothes. Don’t do that again,” he said.
Xiaoman, aware of his surroundings, knew he could be reckless only with familiar people. Had it been a stranger, he wouldn’t have been so bold.
“Who told you to talk to him?”
“I was being polite. Why look so fierce?” Xiaoman snorted, then lifted the basket lid. “Let’s see what was brought. Yesterday we ate so much, I barely touched anything because I was drinking, and later… hic… I even threw up. What a loss.”
“Ah, it’s chicken!”
In the basket was a bowl containing a large piece of whole black chicken. Though it wasn’t a leg, just the upper part, it was enough for Du Heng and Qin Xiaoman to have breakfast together.
They heated the chicken and ate their morning meal.
By early summer, the rapeseed was fully matured. Most of the leaves had fallen, leaving only long slender pods full of seeds.
The summer wind was fierce, and the delicate stalks bent under its force; few stood upright.
“Xiaoman, your rapeseed’s grown nicely.”
As Du Heng and Qin Xiaoman stepped into their field with sickles and baskets, they saw Uncle Ge.
“First-year planting is tricky. Yours looks fine; mine—after years of experience—still gives a good harvest every year,” Uncle Ge said with a smile.
Qin Xiaoman stepped into the field. When rapeseed flowers bloom in spring, the fields glow yellow, beautiful to behold. The Ge family planted five or six acres, lining the main village road, and when in bloom, a sea of white moths fluttered among the flowers, with buzzing bees audible up close.
Though Qin Xiaoman had seen this every year, it never struck him as extraordinary. Now, seeing their own field alongside Ge’s, it seemed even more beautiful.
The mature rapeseed reached half a person’s height. Xiaoman plucked a pod, pressed it, and seeds spilled out eagerly.
“Uncle Ge, look! Are our seeds ready to harvest? Can we collect them all?”
Uncle Ge leaned closer, checking the pods. They were full, firm, and round. “Yes, you can start harvesting in a couple of days.”
“Was planning to do so anyway. My eldest cousin just got married,” Xiaoman said.
“Oh! That wedding was lively indeed,” Uncle Ge laughed, recalling yesterday’s feast.
Qin Xiaoman smiled at their own rapeseed.
“Xiaoman, what are you planning to do with all these seeds once harvested?”
Xiaoman glanced at Du Heng.
“We haven’t decided. This year was just a trial, and my husband has been managing it all. Whatever we do with the seeds will be his call.”
Uncle Ge looked at Du Heng and suggested, “If you plan to sell the seeds, you could sell them to me. We’re nearby, and it’ll save a trip to town.”
Du Heng nodded. “Of course. If we sell, we’ll come to you first.”
After chatting a bit more, Uncle Ge left cheerfully to tend his own fields.
Each acre yielded around 200 jin of seeds. Fertile fields could reach 250 jin, while poor soil had no lower limit.
The harvested rapeseed had to be dried first. A protective layer was spread on the ground to prevent pods from bursting under the sun, losing seeds. In sunny weather, two to three days would suffice. The stalks turned a dry straw color.
Then bamboo mats were used to gently beat the dried rapeseed. Pods that broke spilled all seeds, which were sifted carefully.
This labor-intensive process occupied Du Heng and Xiaoman for about half a month. The dried stalks were bundled and stored in the woodshed alongside spring bamboo shoots, useful for winter fires. Occasionally, neighbors would come asking for some.