Sunshine on a Cloudy Day

Yue Qi is not supposed to be seen by guests. 

The Madam wants to keep up the appearance of her establishment as one filled with only beauties, as if a piece of heaven had been brought down to earth. Only women and girls, here for the pleasure of her guests. 

Madam says Yue Qi is not unpleasant to the eyes, but as puberty creeps up on him, his features are becoming less gentle, and he fits in her fantasy less. He can still pass as a girl from a distance, and that’s good enough for now.  

She knew this would happen when she bought him, but she never meant for Yue Qi to be serving clients; she just needed an errand boy, and deemed him a sight for sore eyes compared to all the other children. 

He doesn’t mind this; it means fewer chances for drunk guests' hands to creep up on him when he least expects it. The work is quieter this way. He slips in and out of the brothel by the back entrance, handles the laundry, brings food and wine by the doors of the clients and leaves it outside with a knock for his jiejie’s to actually serve it. 

If someone sees him, he keeps his head low, letting his long hair fall, like he’s a demure little girl, shy at the sight of men. If he’s called upon, he smiles at the guests with practiced ease, head tilted and eyes half closed, before telling them he has other clients to attend.

Guests are easy to sway when he smiles that way. Madam always praises his smile. 

It’s an evening like any other when the Madam calls for him. 

There’s an important guest tonight. A cultivator, a rich cultivator. He’s paid in advance for the entire night, for multiple girls, for food and entertainment. 

“I want you to be at his service for the night, stay by his door, and bring anything else he might require,”  she tells him. 

Yue Qi has heard of cultivators, but he’s never seen one before. 

He remembers stories the other children used to tell, of fighting monsters and flying on swords, of cultivating in isolation and becoming immortal. 

It sounded incredible, but so out of reach, too out of reach. The thought of being so free you could fly… he would need to escape to do something like that, and there never was a good reason to risk it, especially when failure would mean getting his legs broken. 

Cultivation wasn’t for people like him, held at the top of a distant mountain or behind the golden gates of a palace, somewhere he couldn’t go.

Once he got sold, he got to live in relative comfort. With a roof over his head, a meal a day and untattered clothes, there was no reason for him to fantasize about more. Things were good enough for him.

Still. A part of him can’t help but be curious about the man. 

He can hear music from inside the room, the sound of glasses and plates, his jiejie’s voices as they speak with the man. Yue Qi is almost tempted to press his ear against the door to try and distinguish the cadence of his voice. 

He scrambles back to his place when he hears steps coming near the door, sitting straight and dutifully at the side of the door. 

“Ah, Xiao-Qi, we need some scented oil, get the best one for our guest’s hair,” Han-jie tells him. 

Yue Qi attempts to get a peek at the cultivator as the door is still open. His jiejie’s are draped around him like a bunch of cats, looking for attention and obscuring any possible view for Yue Qi. 

He can only catch a glimpse of pale, long hands expertly plucking on the strings of a guqin before Han-jie closes the door.

When he returns with the oil, his hand hovers on the wood of the door, ready to knock as usual before leaving the item on the floor. He won’t get to see the cultivator if he does so, unless he hopes to catch a glimpse of him in the morning, when the man will inevitably leave. 

It’s not guaranteed he will be able to. 

Yue Qi acts before he can think. He knocks, but before anyone can come to the door, he opens it and steps inside. 

He sees the man, pale and with sharp features, in contrast to the soft curves of his jiejies leaning on him, with inhumanly long black hair loose and trailing behind him like a river of ink. He’s still playing the guqin when Yue Qi steps inside, but the sound stops in a breath’s time at Yue Qi’s entrance. The man’s phoenix eyes snap in his direction, severe as if looking for an intruder to neutralize. 

Yue Qi is immediately frozen, the weight of his impulsive decision nailing him in place. 

Then something shifts in the man’s expression, something like– surprise? confusion? Yue Qi isn’t sure, but he takes the chance to breathe and to bow to the man, quickly. 

“This lowly one apologizes for the interruption,” he says, “I’ve brought the oil Xiansheng requested.”

He keeps his head low, unsure of what to do next. Leave the oil on the table? Hand it to one of his jiejies–?

“Bring it to me,” the cultivator says. 

Yue Qi looks up; the man’s eyes are still fixed on him, scrutinizing his every movement. 

It's– No one has ever looked at him like that, it's like he’s trying to peel away at his skin and find a monster hidden beneath it. He bows again before quickly walking over, offering the small bottle with both hands, handling it with the care of an object worth more than he deserves. 

But the cultivator doesn’t spare the bottle a single glance, still looking down at Yue Qi’s face. 

As his ice-cold fingers brush against Yue Qi’s hands he feels a spark, like electricity, which makes him jump and pull his hands back. The cultivator lets the bottle left in his hand fall into the hands of Han-jie, just beside him, without taking his eyes away from him.

“What is your name?” he asks. 

His gaze is almost unbearable to hold against, too heavy and scrutinizing. So Yue Qi closes his eyes, tilts his head, and smiles at the guest.

“This one is Yue Qi,” he says happily, in a practiced and polite tone, “I’ll be going now–”

The man’s cold hand is wrapped around Yue Qi’s arm before he can take a single step back, “No, stay here.” 

“Ah, Xiansheng–” Han-jie speaks up, voice sweet and coaxing, “he’s merely an errand boy, he can’t be of service like us–”

If looks could kill, Han-jie’s head would have been cut in one swift motion. The air in the room becomes more oppressive, difficult to breathe. The tension so palpable it could be cut with a knife. 

And all the man had to do was look at her. 

She falls silent, all the girls fall silent, breaths held tight against their chests as Yue Qi lets the man pull him closer, until he sits right beside him, pressed against his side. A possessive hand clutched on the fabric of his clothes. 

Yue Qi can’t remember the last time he’s been so close to someone. Maybe to another child on a cold night, as they would seek out warmth from him, before leaving as soon as breakfast was being handed out by the slavers, easily discarding him for a piece of bread. 

It’s not smart to feel… nice, about this. 

But he’s often been called stupid, and he doesn’t like the worried expressions on his jiejie’s faces.

He tucks his feet in and sits as straight and as properly as he can. He smiles again at the man, eyes closed so his expression can’t scare him.

“This lowly one is happy to keep Xiansheng company.” 

There’s a stutter in the man’s breath, so faint that Yue Qi thinks he must have imagined it for a moment. 

He’s silent for a while before he shifts in his seat, hands reaching for the guqin again, while keeping Yue Qi in his arms. It can’t be comfortable to play this way. Yue Qi doesn’t know why he doesn’t just keep him at his side instead of keeping him caged in his arms. It’s not like he would run. 

It’s a little uncomfortable, but he leans a little closer, just so the man won’t have too much of a hard time playing. 

Quiet notes fill the room, and Yue Qi does his best to keep his expression placid as he looks at the man’s hand as they pluck and drag across the cords of the instrument. His movements are efficient and skilled in a way that far surpasses his most skilled jiejie. 

It doesn’t take any effort to not look at the man’s face when Yue Qi has such a sight to behold. 

“Xiansheng…” Li-jie calls, a hint of anxiety in her otherwise sweet tone, “you were telling us about–”

“How old are you?” The man suddenly asks. Yue Qi has to take a moment to realize the question is aimed at him. 

Li-jie looks mortified. He smiles reassuringly at her.

“This one is fourteen,” he answers. 

His finger falters on a string, almost missing a note, but recovers quickly. It's a mistake Yue Qi has seen his jiejies make multiple times when distracted. 

“Are you the son of someone here?” 

“No, this one has been bought by the Madam as a servant.”

“Uhm…” 

Yue Qi waits patiently for any other questions the man might have, as he watches him play. There’s a slight tension to his hands, one that Yue Qi relates to the uncomfortable position he’s forcing himself to play in. 

Should he ask if he should move? He doesn’t think the man would let him. 

When he doesn’t ask any more questions, the jiejies try to capture his attention again, chatting idly, playing themselves a few of their instruments, leaning in and whispering to the man things Yue Qi can’t really make out. 

He seems to be merely tolerating them. 

For his part, Yue Qi stays as still as a flower, with the arms of the cultivator as the vase he now resides in. He’s grown mesmerized by the man’s hands as he continues to play, tuning out completely the gentle chatter of his jiejies.

Yue Qi has seen his jiejie’s play instruments many times before. They can be beautiful and charming, and funny when playing. They can create any image they want for the guests, any feeling they think the men will want. 

Yue Qi wonders what image the cultivator creates when he plays. He dares to look at his face once more and…

The man looks ethereal. Unreal.