Work Text:
February 13 · Wuling
Winter on Talos-II wasn't particularly cold in Wuling.
The city nestled in a valley encircled by mountains. When morning mist rose from the river surface, the white walls and dark-tiled roofs seemed to float in an ink painting. Tianshi stakes stood beside the flying eaves of the city gates, their metallic sheen contrasting with the muted glow of the old tiles—Endfield's technology and remnants of the old era coexisted here without one overshadowing the other.
The Endministrator stood at the ferry crossing, breathing warm air into his palms.
"Endministrator, spacing out again." Perlica's voice came from behind. The Liberi's ear feathers trembled lightly in the river breeze. She held her data pad, swiping a few times with her fingertips to pull up the regional map of Wuling. "We've already reported to the Dijiang. You're free for the whole day today."
The Endministrator made a soft "mm" sound, his gaze still fixed on the river. Several bamboo rafts were approaching from the opposite bank. The polers wore indigo cloth shirts, and red silk ribbons fluttered at the tails of the rafts, dots of red against the gray-white sky.
"…What are those for?" the Endministrator asked.
"Festival decorations." Perlica followed his line of sight. "The day after tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Wuling has a local custom of floating river lanterns. These rafts are just testing the water."
The Endministrator didn't reply. He was wearing his usual gray functional jacket today, with a small coffee stain on the cuff from last night when he'd accidentally spilled some while debugging the protocol terminal in the Dijiang's rest area.
Perlica put away the data pad. "Chen Qianyu went down early this morning. Said she was heading to the market to buy some 'secret-recipe sugar paintings.' She asked me to tell you she'd wait for us to meet up on North Street."
"…North Street," the Endministrator repeated.
"Yes."
"She said yesterday that South Street had good food."
Perlica paused for a moment. "She might have remembered wrong."
The Endministrator said nothing. Wuling's main streets had plenty of shops blending wooden structures with steel frames. Second-floor windows stood open, airing out various patterned fabrics. At the entrances, portable energy terminals from Endfield Industries sat displayed—silver-gray casings with indicator lights blinking on and off.
The Endministrator slowed his pace. He didn't deliberately look at the shops, but his eyes kept drifting toward the flower stores along the way. He'd already passed four on this stretch alone—the first sold fresh-cut flowers, bundles of red roses stuck in buckets by the door, leaves still dotted with water droplets; the second specialized in potted plants, pothos and money trees crammed into half the shop; the third was tiny, only dried flowers; the fourth had a modest storefront, a stone threshold worn smooth by years of footsteps, with hanging spider plants on either side of the doorframe.
The Endministrator stopped.
Inside, the light was dim. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the beams, and a few branches of wintersweet stood in ceramic jars. The counter was old, its wood grain worn flat, topped with a chubby round cactus in a clay pot, a single dried flower crowning its top.
Perlica stood behind him. She could see the Endministrator's hand hanging at his side. It dangled for a moment, then lifted—fingers brushing the hem of his jacket—before dropping again. Whenever the Endministrator had something he wanted to say but didn't know how to start, he did this. The last time had been three weeks ago, when he'd stood at the cafeteria window for five minutes wanting the auntie to add an extra portion of sweet-and-sour pork ribs, until Chen Qianyu finally rushed up and ordered it for him.
Perlica waited a bit, then spoke softly. "Endministrator."
He turned his head.
"Wuling has some local ornamental plants," Perlica said, her tone as calm as if she were giving a work report. "Nightstar fern, Wuling prayer plant, and dwarf varieties of cactus. If you're interested in buying, the nurseries in West Market have the widest selection."
"…Thanks," the Endministrator said.
Perlica nodded. She didn't ask who it was for. She only said, "I'll contact Chen Qianyu and let her know you'll be a little late."
The Endministrator was quiet for a moment. "…No need. I'll tell her myself." He reached into his inner jacket pocket for his comms terminal, lowered his head, and typed. After a while, he asked, "How do I get to West Market?"
Perlica pointed out the way. She watched him take a few steps in that direction, then stop.
"Perlica." The Endministrator didn't turn back. "You mentioned the nightstar fern earlier. Is it easy to take care of?"
"Yes," Perlica said. "It's native to Wuling. Water it once a month and that's enough."
The Endministrator nodded and didn't ask anything else.
His comms terminal buzzed lightly in Perlica's pocket—a voice message from Chen Qianyu. When she played it, the dragon girl's bright, sparkling voice burst out of the speaker: "Perlica—! Where are you guys—! The sugar paintings come in twelve shapes and I bought one of each! I remember the Endministrator likes the rabbit one! I got you a little butterfly too! Hurry hurry hurry—!"
Perlica tucked the terminal away and headed toward North Street.
West Market sat on the edge of Wuling.
One nursery had no sign—just rows of wooden shelves at the entrance crammed with potted plants. Pothos, spider plants, ivy, and various unnamed succulents pressed leaf against leaf, gleaming oil-green in the afternoon sunlight.
Ardashir stood in front of the shelves.
His gaze rested on the top row. There sat a pot of nightstar fern—deep green leaves edged with an extremely fine silver rim that caught soft light in the sun. The plant was small, the clay pot no bigger than a palm, placed quietly between a copper coin plant and a bamboo fern, like a single star fallen into the grass.
Ardashir looked at it for a long time.
The nursery owner, an elderly man with graying hair, sat at the doorway sunning himself, an old blanket over his knees. He'd watched this white-haired young man stand at the entrance for nearly twenty minutes before finally speaking. "…Young man, are you buying or not?"
Ardashir didn't turn. "Buying."
"Then pick something already."
Ardashir didn't move. He kept looking at the nightstar fern, at that hair-thin silver edge on the leaves. "…How long has this one been here?"
The old man paused. "How long? Couple of months, I'd say. Not easy to sell. Locals know they can pick it wild in the mountains—who pays money for it?"
Ardashir said nothing. His fingers curled slightly at his side. "…Has it flowered?"
"It has. Last autumn." The old man pointed at the top. "See that little mark? Flower faded, left the stem. It'll bloom again next year."
Ardashir lowered his head to look at the dried stem—small, thin, like a faint brownish scratch. "How long does the bloom last?"
"Three or five days. Short, but fragrant. Opens at night—the whole room smells of it."
Ardashir asked no more. He reached out and gently touched a leaf. The sensation was cool, smooth, with the resilient toughness of a plant. "…I'll take it."
The old man stood, pulled out an old newspaper from under the counter, and began wrapping it. He placed the pot in a plain cotton-linen bag and tied the top with two thin hemp cords. "For someone?" the old man asked casually.
Ardashir took it, fingers pausing on the knot. "…Yes."
"Local?"
"No."
The old man nodded, asked no more, sat back down, and pulled the blanket over his knees again.
Ardashir stood at the doorway without leaving right away. He'd given that person many gifts long ago, in another land under different light. Back then he hadn't needed to think so hard—gifts left on the windowsill or the corner of a table, and the other would always notice, always accept, always mention casually one day, "That pot bloomed." Sometimes ore, sometimes books, sometimes a wildflower picked on the road. Once, a piece of burnt biscuit.
Ardashir stopped walking.
The bamboo grove had arrived. This patch of Wuling bamboo stood at the edge of West Market—a seven- or eight-minute walk from the nursery. The stalks were taller than in other parts of Talos-II, with long internodes; wind passed through with a clear, rustling sound. A narrow path wound through, paved with broken bluestone, moss growing in the cracks, slippery underfoot.
At a bend in the bamboo path, the Endministrator was squatting on the ground. The hem of his gray jacket had picked up a few bamboo leaves, the coffee stain on his cuff barely noticeable in the dappled light. He kept his head down, poking something gently with one finger.
Ardashir took two steps closer.
He saw the Endministrator poking a snail. Thumb-sized, light brown shell, it crawled slowly across a fallen leaf. The Endministrator extended a finger to block its path. The snail paused, retracted its antennae, then extended them again and detoured around. The Endministrator blocked once more; the snail detoured again.
Ardashir stood there without speaking.
The Endministrator looked up then and saw Ardashir, finger still hovering midair. Sunlight filtered through the bamboo gaps, falling between them. "…Snail," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir glanced down at the snail still inching along. "I see it."
The Endministrator withdrew his hand and stood. He patted the bamboo leaves off his pants—one clung stubbornly to his knee. He looked down, reached to pick it, brushed the edge once—nothing. Brushed again—still nothing.
Ardashir watched the finger rub twice at the leaf's edge without dislodging it. He stepped forward, bent down, reached out, and plucked the leaf away, slipping it into his own pocket.
"…Thanks," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir said nothing. He looked at the Endministrator, gaze moving from the expressionless face to the coffee stain on the cuff, then back.
"Why are you here?" the Endministrator asked.
Ardashir didn't answer immediately. The Endministrator's eyes shifted to the cloth bag in Ardashir's other hand—a sliver of deep green leaf peeked out, edged with that extremely fine silver. "…Nightstar fern?" the Endministrator said.
Ardashir's fingers tightened on the bag's drawstring. "You know it." Not a question.
"Perlica mentioned it," the Endministrator said. "Wuling native. Easy to care for."
The Endministrator lowered his eyes to his empty hands, then to the leaf on the ground where the snail had left a faint silvery trail.
Ardashir looked for a long time. "…Your hand," he said.
The Endministrator glanced down at his own hand. "What about it."
"Not cold?"
The Endministrator shoved it into his pocket. "Cold," he said.
Ardashir said nothing. He looked at the hand in the pocket, at the coffee stain on the gray sleeve, for a long time. Then he lowered his head; the nightstar fern leaves in the bag swayed gently in the wind.
"…I killed one once," Ardashir said.
The Endministrator looked up at him.
"Another nightstar fern." Ardashir's voice was very soft, like bamboo leaves falling on water. "Someone gave it to me. Forgot to water it. By the time I remembered, it was dry."
He didn't say how long ago, or who had given it. He just lowered his head, staring at that patch of deep green in the bag.
The Endministrator said nothing. He looked at Ardashir's lowered lashes, at the white hair falling over one side of his face, at the fingers gripping the drawstring—knuckles faintly white.
"…This one," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir looked up.
"Planning to give it away," the Endministrator said. Not a question.
"To whom."
Ardashir didn't answer. He just looked at the Endministrator, the faint cracks in those blue eyes slowly widening. The Endministrator waited. Wind blew through the bamboo grove, scattering the patches of light on the ground.
Ardashir opened his mouth—no sound. Opened it again. "…You," he said. The word was so soft it was almost covered by the rustle of bamboo leaves.
The Endministrator heard it. He said nothing, just looked at Ardashir, at his own reflection in those blue eyes. His hand stayed in his pocket, fingers slowly clenching. "…Me," he repeated.
Ardashir didn't look away. "Yes." His voice remained soft. "For you."
The bamboo grove grew quiet. The distant sound of poling stopped—perhaps the rafts had reached shore. The wind paused for a moment; the leaves hung still.
The Endministrator said nothing. He looked at the bag in Ardashir's hand, at the silver-edged deep green peeking out. He remembered Perlica saying the nightstar fern's bloom was short—three or five days, opening at night, very fragrant. He remembered standing at the nameless flower shop door, looking through the wooden lattice at that chubby cactus for a long time. He remembered this morning in the Dijiang rest area, adding three sugars to his coffee, taking a sip, then pouring it out.
He didn't know what he was thinking. He just looked at Ardashir, at that refined, quiet face, at the faint tension waiting for judgment.
"…I have one too," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir paused. "What."
The Endministrator pulled his hand from his pocket—empty. "…Haven't bought it yet." He looked at Ardashir. "Was planning to today."
Ardashir said nothing. He looked at the hand hanging at the Endministrator's side, at the fingers slowly curling and uncurling. "…Planning to give it to whom," Ardashir asked.
The Endministrator didn't answer right away. He looked at Ardashir, gaze shifting from the blue eyes to the nightstar fern in the bag, then back—lingering a long time. Then he said, "You."
Ardashir said nothing. He lowered his head to look at the bag; his fingers, still gripping the drawstring, slowly loosened.
"…That one," Ardashir said.
"Yeah."
"Bought it?"
"Not yet."
"Planning to buy what."
The Endministrator thought for a moment. "…Cactus," he said.
Ardashir looked up at him; a light rose from deep in those blue eyes. "…Easy to care for," he said.
"Yeah," the Endministrator said. "Water once a month."
"No need to water every day."
"Yeah."
"Won't forget."
The Endministrator looked at Ardashir. "Won't forget," he said.
Ardashir said nothing. He looked at the Endministrator; that light slowly spread from his eyes to the corners of his mouth.
"…What are you smiling about," the Endministrator asked.
"Nothing." Ardashir switched the bag to his left hand; his right hung at his side.
The wind rose again in the bamboo grove, rustling the leaves. The distant poling sounded again, closer this time—perhaps a new batch of rafts setting out.
The Endministrator looked at the hand less than ten centimeters from his own—long fingers, distinct knuckles, nails trimmed short. He moved his own hand forward five centimeters. Ardashir's hand moved forward five centimeters too.
The backs of their hands touched lightly.
No one spoke. The Endministrator looked at the patch of light on the ground, watched it sway in the wind, watched it inch from one side of the bluestone to the other. He felt the temperature on the back of his hand—cool, carrying a hint of wind. He didn't move; Ardashir didn't move either.
They stood like that for a long time. Long enough for the light patch to shift from one side of the stone to the other, long enough for the snail to finish crossing the leaf and disappear behind a clump of moss, long enough for the wind to rise and fall, rise and fall.
"…We should go," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir nodded. They didn't let go of each other's hands—just walked side by side out of the bamboo grove like that. The bag swayed gently at Ardashir's side; the nightstar fern leaves brushed the fabric with a faint rustle. The coffee stain on the Endministrator's cuff remained, faintly brown in the sunlight. Their hand-backs occasionally touched, separated, touched again.
Ardashir's fingers moved slightly; he parted them a little. The Endministrator felt the contact change—Ardashir's hand-back pressing against his. He didn't turn to look at Ardashir, just leaned his hand back a bit closer, a bit tighter.
Ardashir said nothing. His fingers slowly closed, gently holding the Endministrator's hand—not gripping hard, just cupping it, like cupping a fallen bamboo leaf in his palm.
The Endministrator stopped. Ardashir stopped too. They stood at the edge of the bamboo grove; sunlight leaked through the last row of leaves, falling between them. The Endministrator lowered his head to look at the hand holding his—Ardashir's hand. He looked for a long time, then slowly turned his wrist, sliding his fingers into the gaps between Ardashir's.
"…Tomorrow," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir looked up.
"Tomorrow I'll go buy it again," the Endministrator said. "That cactus."
"…Chen Qianyu's still waiting on North Street," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir said nothing.
"Perlica said she was buying sugar paintings. Probably done by now," the Endministrator added.
Ardashir still said nothing.
The Endministrator looked at their joined hands. "…Let go?" he said.
Ardashir didn't move. "…No," he said.
The Endministrator said nothing and didn't pull away. They walked out of the bamboo grove like that, hand in hand, onto the stone road of West Market. Sunlight leaked through wintersweet branches poking over the firewall, falling on their shoulders. The Endministrator glanced down at their joined hands. "…Your hand isn't cold," he said.
Ardashir made a soft "mm."
"Earlier someone said cold," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir said nothing. After a while, "…Was afraid you'd be cold," he said.
The Endministrator said nothing, just gripped that hand a little tighter.
North Street was much livelier than West Market.
The sugar painting stall stood at the street entrance, a line of over a dozen people. Chen Qianyu was at the very front, dragon tail held high, the tip dangling a bulging oiled-paper bag. She turned to look down the street, spotted the Endministrator, and her tail flicked an excited question mark in the air. "Endministrator—!" She charged forward, waving the bag, blue-red gradient scales flashing in the sun.
Halfway there, she saw the Endministrator's hand.
That hand was holding another hand—one belonging to someone she really didn't want to see.
Her tail froze midair. The oiled-paper bag swung twice on the tip. Chen Qianyu's mouth fell open. She looked at the Endministrator, at Ardashir, at their joined hands, back at the Endministrator, at Ardashir, at the hand.
"You two—" She pointed at the hand, finger trembling. "You—him—hand—"
The Endministrator looked at her. "Yeah," he said.
Chen Qianyu's mouth gaped wider; her tail drooped. The bag nearly slipped; she fumbled to catch it. "…When did this happen!"
The Endministrator thought for a moment. "Just now," he said.
Chen Qianyu looked at him, then at Ardashir. Ardashir gave a slight nod. "Miss Chen Qianyu."
Chen Qianyu glared at him for a long time. Then she lowered her head, pulled a rabbit-shaped sugar painting from the bag, and stuffed it into the Endministrator's free hand. "Here." Her voice was muffled.
The Endministrator looked down at the sugar painting—one of the rabbit's ears was missing a small piece. "…Thanks," he said.
Chen Qianyu huffed, pulled out a butterfly-shaped one, looked it over left and right. "Where's Perlica?"
"Behind," the Endministrator said.
Chen Qianyu nodded and carefully put the butterfly back in the bag. She glanced up at Ardashir, then at their joined hands. "…Um," she started.
Ardashir looked at her.
Chen Qianyu held it in for a long time. "Cactus," she suddenly said.
Ardashir paused. "What."
"The Endministrator wants to buy a cactus," Chen Qianyu said. "He asked me yesterday on the Dijiang which flower was easy to care for. I said cactus." She hugged the bag to her chest; her tail lifted a little again. "I gave him sugar paintings. Never gave him flowers. He never asked me who I gave flowers to." She paused. "So it was you."
Chen Qianyu untied the bag from her tail, pulled out a little fish-shaped sugar painting, and held it out to Ardashir. "For you," she said.
Ardashir looked down at the little fish. The sugar painting gleamed amber in the sun, tail curled up, one small scale missing. He took it. "…Thank you," he said.
Chen Qianyu made a soft "hm," retied the bag to her chest, tail swaying gently behind her.
The Endministrator looked at the rabbit in his hand, then at the little fish in Ardashir's. He raised the rabbit and tapped its tail against the fish. Ardashir turned his face to look at him. The Endministrator said nothing, drew the rabbit back, and bit off an ear. The rabbit was now earless.
When Perlica turned the corner, this was the scene she saw: Chen Qianyu standing by the sugar painting stall hugging her bag, tail swaying; the Endministrator opposite her, holding half a bitten rabbit sugar painting; Ardashir beside the Endministrator, holding a little fish sugar painting.
They were holding hands.
Perlica didn't ask. She took the butterfly sugar painting from Chen Qianyu's hand, glanced down—wings intact, antennae unbroken.
Chen Qianyu grinned, tiger teeth sparkling. She spun around; her tail nearly swept a bamboo basket off the next stall. Perlica reached out to steady it. Chen Qianyu didn't notice, already rushing to the next stall to look at hand-woven infinity knots.
Perlica straightened the basket. She glanced at the Endministrator, then at Ardashir. "No tasks scheduled for the Dijiang tonight."
The Endministrator nodded.
Perlica said nothing more and turned toward Chen Qianyu. After a few steps, she stopped. "Endministrator," she said without turning back. "That cactus."
The Endministrator looked at her.
Perlica paused. "The nursery in West Market," she said. "There's still one left."
She didn't say you can go buy it. She just finished speaking and kept walking. Chen Qianyu's bright voice came from farther down the street: "Perlica—! Look at this knot—it has twelve colors—!"
"…Tomorrow," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir looked at him. "Tomorrow I'll go buy it again," the Endministrator said. "That cactus."
Ardashir said nothing. He just raised the little fish sugar painting and gently tapped it against the earless rabbit in the Endministrator's hand. The sugar paintings touched with a soft sound, like bamboo leaves falling on water.
"…Yeah," Ardashir said.
The Endministrator looked at the little fish pressed against the rabbit for a long time. Then he stuffed the last half of the rabbit into his mouth. Sweetness melted on his tongue.
The Endministrator tossed the empty bamboo stick into a roadside bin. He turned his face to look at Ardashir. Ardashir was looking back at him, blue eyes reflecting the sunlight and his own shadow.
"…Let's go," the Endministrator said.
Ardashir nodded.
They walked side by side deeper into the street.
Their hands were still holding each other.