The little butterfly was awfully hard to coax.
Even though the storm had passed and skies were clear, he still often drowned in the cold rain of dark nights, lost and unable to snap out of it.
Like right now on the couch, clearly held tightly in Zhao Lixuan’s arms, with warm body heat seeping through the thin shirt—yet he still trembled faintly from time to time along his shoulders and back. Zhao Lixuan noticed and stroked his bony spine palm by palm. “What’s wrong?”
Jiang Chen didn’t answer, only buried his face deeper into the crook of Zhao Lixuan’s neck.
Zhao Lixuan waited a moment, then lightly tapped his nape with a fingertip, with just enough force to demand a response. “Jiang Chen, what did you promise me earlier? Speak up.”
The man in his arms remained silent.
It dragged on so long that Zhao Lixuan almost thought he’d fallen asleep, until a very low, hoarse mumble finally came: “This… this really isn’t a dream?”
“I always feel like… I’m dreaming.”
Zhao Lixuan silently pulled him even tighter.
His fingertips unconsciously twirled a strand of cool ink-black hair, and in a daze, he thought that if not for the Divine Breath remolding his immortal body, this broken little butterfly might truly never find peace—perhaps turning into a resentful ghost, a lingering obsession that refused to enter the wheel of reincarnation.
He’d already explained it so many times these past days.
How that strand of Divine Breath had nurtured his soul and body, remolding his immortal bones inch by inch. How he could live a long, long time still.
But he remained uneasy.
Zhao Lixuan racked his brains, searching for more tangible ways to soothe him.
“Little Jiang, actually this past year… I’ve pored over countless texts and consulted many seniors.”
“When our Immortal Clan reaches a certain age, we either break through and ascend like my parents, heading to higher realms. Or we fade like mortals when our lifespan ends, dissipating in this world.”
“But even if we dissipate, it’s just like mortals—reentering the cycle of reincarnation. Forgetting the past, starting anew.”
“So, don’t be afraid.”
He lowered his head, lips nearly brushing Jiang Chen’s ear, enunciating each word clearly and solemnly:
“I promise you, no matter what happens, I’ll find you. If your soul scatters, I’ll use the Soul-Gathering Lamp to piece it back together shard by shard. If you reincarnate and forget the past, I’ll come to your side and meet you all over again.”
“Little Jiang, I won’t let go of your hand again.”
The man in his arms stiffened for a long while before finally rasping out, “But there are so many better people around you…”
Zhao Lixuan was at his wit’s end.
He raised his hand and gave Jiang Chen’s nape two not-too-light, not-too-heavy smacks.
Smack, smack.
He was addicted to spanking the little green worm.
So Zhao Lixuan simply gave him a proper scolding, kneading him until he settled down, then started digging up old grievances.
He had far too many old scores to settle.
Like how someone had hidden so many things from him without a word, or why he’d always tough it out in silence when unwell, or why he’d rather bottle up his grievances until he made himself sick than speak up.
The more he said, the more fired up he got, jabbing a fingertip at Jiang Chen’s chest. “With your temperament, if you don’t change, who could possibly live well with you?”
Sure, there were plenty of good people in the world.
But fate couldn’t be forced. Some people could be perfect in every way, yet you just didn’t feel it. Sometimes someone was stubborn, pitiable, even hateful… but you couldn’t let go no matter what.
“It’s only me—probably because I owed you in a past life.”
Jiang Chen was mortified, burying his head in Zhao Lixuan’s chest and mumbling for mercy. “…Stop.”
Zhao Lixuan knew when to quit.
But he also knew he couldn’t let this butterfly idle from now on. Idle time led to overthinking.
So Zhao Lixuan started making demands. “I want crab roe pot helmets. Stuffed full, fresh from the pan, fried golden and crispy, flaking at the edges. And other snacks you’re good at making.”
“You promised to make them for me before.”
Jiang Chen had always been skilled in the kitchen, but this time he was uncharacteristically clumsy, the corners of his eyes reddened faintly from the smoke, as if he’d been crying.
He bustled about busily—kneading dough, mixing fillings, controlling the fire, plating—focused and devout.
Not only did he serve up the pepper-salt crisps and crab roe pot helmets Zhao Lixuan had requested, neatly arranged, but he also added an extra plate of scallion-braised tender venison, a dish of stir-fried fresh greens, and a bowl of bamboo-mushroom free-range chicken soup simmered until the broth was milky white and fragrant.
The small stone table was laden with a dazzling array, balanced between meat and vegetables, the aromas mingling with warm hearth smoke, weaving upward and infusing the crisp autumn air with cozy warmth.
Zhao Lixuan was the perfect audience, devouring it all with gusto, cheeks bulging.
He could tell Jiang Chen was delighted, even if his expression remained as subdued as ever.
He just sat quietly across from him, gaze glued fast—every time Zhao Lixuan took a big bite or lavishly praised, “Delicious,” the corners of Jiang Chen’s lips would twitch upward ever so slightly before his eyes quickly dropped again.
But the faint blush creeping up his ears completely betrayed the clumsy joy in his heart.
…
Back in the familiar little courtyard, facing this person lost and now regained, life should have flowed smoothly like clouds and water. Yet an inexplicable awkwardness lingered between them.
It was as if both were striving to readjust to this old life filled with mortal hearth and home.
Remolding the body wasn’t instantaneous.
Even nurtured by the strand of Divine Breath Shen Fengyan had left, recovery of the immortal body and spiritual meridians took time. Jiang Chen still needed several bowls of bitter herbal decoctions daily. As per Yu Changxin’s instructions, it boiled down to—
“Like an invalid, qi and blood deficient, spiritual veins unstable. At least a year of bedrest required.”
“Avoid mental strain, martial exertion, extreme joy or sorrow.”
And so, the days of recuperation unfolded.
They slept until the sun was high each day.
Zhao Lixuan’s first task upon waking was to watch Jiang Chen drain every drop of the pitch-black herbal soup.
Per medical orders, sword practice was out of the question, circulating spiritual energy even more so. Days dragged idly, enough to grow mold.
Their main pastime was loosening soil and watering the flowers in the sun-drenched courtyard, or strolling side by side along the bluestone paths to the nearby western market for a leisurely wander.
Liao Yuan Court lay just beyond Luozhou City’s outskirts.
From the market’s end, they could always see that hillside Jiang Chen had planted with golden-silver grass, shimmering gold and verdant under the sun.
Colleagues from Liao Yuan Court often “dropped by” to visit.
Chu Immortal Lord and Bitao Fairy came most frequently, bringing fresh fruits and game. Afternoons in the little courtyard often filled with barbecue smoke and easy chatter.
When something ran short at home, Zhao Lixuan would shop at the market.
But some well-worn favorites, like Jiang Chen’s black agarwood inkstone or the azure jade chi-pattern paperweight Zhao Lixuan had left in the Mortal Realm years ago, polished smooth from use—
Those required a trip to Liao Yuan Court, to fetch from Jiang Chen’s sleeping palace.
In stark contrast to Chu Fusheng’s opulent halls brimming with jewels and finery, Jiang Chen’s palace was starkly empty, almost chillingly so. One bed, one couch, one table, one chair—severely spartan, hardly seeming lived-in or lively.
But the Loofah Courtyard was different.
It was filling, day by day, inch by inch, with quiet, burgeoning life.
Lately, the Many Treasures Pavilion brimmed fuller: chubby gilt-enamel clay beast figurines, a celadon crackle-glaze plum vase with fresh osmanthus branches, glazes shimmering like liquid in the light.
Odd, radiant black phosphorescent stones with bizarre patterns lay quietly on brocade cushions, like a miniature starry night sky brought home.
Though confined to bedrest and unable to venture far, Jiang Chen frequented the nearby western market.
Zhao Lixuan noticed the home’s “little trinkets” multiplying like spring shoots after rain.
Not just the Many Treasures Pavilion overflowing—the window now sported a curtain of strung red beads alternating with tourmaline. The lintel gained a carved white jade lotus entwining banister.
Window sills held tiny gold bells; breezes made them tinkle crisply.
Even the tea tray sported a few plump purple-sand gilded tea pets—rabbits, cats—in varied, whimsically crude shapes.
A few days prior, while Jiang Chen drowsed groggily from his medicine, Zhao Lixuan held him close and whispered slyly, “Those… you bought them for me?”
“Mm…”
Drug-fogged and limp, unusually honest, he mumbled assent, nuzzling instinctively into Zhao Lixuan’s shoulder. “I thought… you’d like them.”
Zhao Lixuan’s heart melted into softness.
A man with no knack for such things had, in those endless, lonely years of waiting, painstakingly, stubbornly learned to guess his preferences, quietly adorning this place he always believed would become “home” again.
Zhao Lixuan made several trips to Liao Yuan Court for old items.
Once, he ran into the court’s dedicated healer.
The meticulous physician led him to a side room in the apothecary. Against the wall stood a tall sandalwood cabinet, drawers labeled precisely, neatly stacked with all of Liao Yuan Court’s medical records and prescriptions over the years.
Jiang Chen alone occupied an entire cabinet.
“Jiang Immortal Lord’s constitution… alas, so terribly depleted, and he endures the most, always pushing through.”
Zhao Lixuan flipped page by page. Yellowed sheets chronicled twenty years of persistent low fevers, stomach pains, sleepless nights, recurring old wounds… each word a needle piercing his heart’s softest spot.
He returned home dazed, chest aching heavily, breathless with pain.
Pushing open the half-latched courtyard gate, he saw Jiang Chen—who should have been lulled to sleep by the sedative decoction—awake, clutching that ugly rag goose tightly. He wandered blankly, gently pushing open empty room doors one by one, silently searching for him.
The afternoon slant of sun stretched his solitary shadow thin and long, exuding forsaken loneliness.
That back view brimmed with abandoned loss.
But he soon heard footsteps and whipped around.
The moment their gazes met, the vacancy in his eyes ignited. Yet he restrained the urge to pounce, walking over unhurriedly before extending his arms to envelop Zhao Lixuan completely, securely.
“You’re back,” he murmured into Zhao Lixuan’s shoulder, striving for calm. “I made you rock sugar pear juice.”
“…”
Silly little Jiang.
…
The pear juice stewed clear and smooth.
Rock sugar’s sweetness perfectly offset the autumn pear’s faint astringency, sliding warm down the throat to soothe heart and lungs.
But Zhao Lixuan had only sipped half a bowl when a warm weight settled against his back.
Jiang Chen sidled up, arms looping around his neck from behind, hugging tight. Lately, he craved embraces fiercely—as if only the reality of skin-to-skin contact, clinging warmth, firm grip could confirm time and again—
Everything he yearned for was truly here, within arm’s reach.
Zhao Lixuan understood his turmoil; words rang hollow now. Only tangible hugs and presence could ease that bone-deep unease.
He nuzzled Jiang Chen’s cool neck lightly, pressing a feather-soft kiss.
He felt clearly Jiang Chen’s throat bob, arms tightening in response. Zhao Lixuan’s gaze dropped, tracing the sharp jawline with delicate kisses upward—over taut cheeks, brushing pursed lips, lingering.
In a haze, he recalled their youth—he’d kissed him countless times.
Yet it felt like this was their first true kiss.
How could that be…
He suddenly remembered Jiang Chen’s past resentful complaint that he’d been “too fast” back then. He’d brushed it off once, but now enlightenment struck—maybe Little Jiang was right?
Indeed.
In their youth, he’d been too… full of fervent heat, reckless and urgent.
His mind fixated on the next step.
Kisses were mere preludes to deeper intimacy, purposeful conquests. He’d never kissed him like this—with such patient purity, such tender cherishing.
No wonder Jiang Chen had grumbled.
What he’d missed back then was this devoted, lingering flavor…
This time, Zhao Lixuan was serious. With utmost gentleness, he kissed every inch—cheeks, ears, lashes—before returning to those thin lips, nipping, kissing deeply, intricately, endlessly.
He lost himself in the long, tender kiss, dizzy and dazed, vaguely thinking: Is this the cherished treatment Little Jiang secretly yearned for back then?
Indeed, this was utterly different from the frantic, straight-to-the-point intimacy.
It was a slow, soul-soaking affirmation and soothing.
And he found it utterly novel.
He drowned in it.
His breathing grew heavier without his control, vague sighs slipping from their tangled lips and teeth. Zhao Lixuan pulled back just a fraction, pressing his forehead to Jiang Chen’s, his voice hoarse beyond measure: “Jiang Sweetie…”
He couldn’t help himself.
The body in his arms went rigid.
No surprise there—twenty years ago, Jiang Chen hadn’t liked him tossing out nicknames willy-nilly either.
Back then, his tolerance had a firm bottom line: “Little Jiang.” Anything like “Little Sweet Ginger” or “Jiang Sweetie,” and he’d stiffen up, purse his lips, and annoyedly haul the clinging Zhao Lixuan right off him.
“You don’t like it?” Zhao Lixuan asked humbly. “Then tell me—what should I call you?”
Jiang Chen fell silent, starting to hold his breath again.
Zhao Lixuan sometimes thought this man never learned his lesson, but that stubborn look was so endearing. His heart went soft and achy; he couldn’t resist planting a kiss on Jiang Chen’s nose tip, deciding to tease him all the way.
“I’m gonna call you, I’m gonna call you.”
“Little Sweet Ginger, Sweetie, Little Butterfly.”
“Little Veggie Worm…”
His mouth was suddenly muffled by a warm palm.
Zhao Lixuan: “…”
Fine, fine—Little Veggie Worm was apparently a step too far.
Jiang Chen’s voice came out muffled against his palm, hoarse with annoyance: “No calling that.”
Zhao Lixuan: “Got it.”
He’d thought Jiang Chen truly disliked it… until his fingers brushed the man’s scorching-hot ear.
Back then… it was the same.
Every time he’d gotten close and horsed around, Jiang Chen’s body had burned like this, only for him to dodge away with a cold face.
For an instant, Zhao Lixuan’s mind went completely blank. This realization—twenty years late—hit him hard: What if… he never actually disliked it? What if he liked it all along?
He’d just been shy. But back then, Zhao Lixuan hadn’t understood shyness—he’d chalked it up to anger and embarrassment.
“…”
“Sweetie.”
Zhao Lixuan dipped his head to kiss him, lips brushing lips, breaths mingling as he murmured the name again.
“…”
“Hm?”
As expected, the man in his arms didn’t resist this time. His actions were always more honest than his words.
Pressed so close, chests flush against each other, Zhao Lixuan could feel Jiang Chen’s heartbeat crystal clear—fast, heavy, pounding against his own ribcage.
That fierce throbbing even pulsed through flesh and bone, gradually syncing with his own until they beat as one.
Heat bloomed in his chest. He couldn’t help leaning in again, capturing that slightly cool lower lip with gentle suction.
Amid the sticky, messy kisses, he mumbled a stream of nonsense—love words, vows—all melting into their shared breaths.
This drawn-out, delicate kissing seemed to give Jiang Chen the profound satisfaction and security he truly needed.
And once that gentle safety enveloped him completely, soothing away the tension, his body finally began to loosen… then, slowly, kindled a wholly different kind of intent.
It wasn’t as if Jiang Chen had ever been unwilling with him before.
Back then, their intimacy had been like a pure flame, ignited in an instant. But now…
Zhao Lixuan realized it anew.
It was my mistake.
He’d been with him so long and yet never truly understood this butterfly’s nature.
He’d never seen Jiang Chen like this—
Consciousness fogging amid the dense kisses and endearments, the corners of his eyes flushing wet and red, his gaze hazy with desire and some deeper, inscrutable light.
His breaths came quick and ragged, his temperature climbing, the throb of blood pulsing even through their clothes.
It was as if he were being slowly steeped in a sweet torment, burning from the tip of his heart outward to every limb.
He arched his neck restlessly, Adam’s apple bobbing.
Where their skin touched, it was scorching.
No more awkward, fumbling resistance—he pressed closer unconsciously, even letting fuzzy sounds escape his throat.
So that’s it. He needed to be nurtured first with love, soothed with care until his soul felt full and safe. Only then would he naturally unfold for him—deeper, more intricate, a bone-deep indulgence and craving.
