Though that was what he said, he was still a little shy.
After changing into his pajamas, Shang Xi burrowed under the covers and let out a relaxed sigh.
The weather was bitterly cold, and the Survival Area had added warming sheds for shelter. During class, he could just turn into a bird and doze off for a while—being human was far more comfortable.
He liked the feeling of stretching out his legs, of sinking entirely into the soft embrace of the blankets.
The little snake slithered up onto the bedrail and flicked out its tongue.
The young man half-closed his eyes and murmured, “Come on, then.”
The little snake hesitated instead. After gazing at him for a long moment, it finally slipped through a gap in the covers.
The young man had just bathed, and the faint scent of lily-of-the-valley clung to his pure cotton pajamas.
It had sneaked over to sleep here before, but this time they were pressed close together. Fu Congxiao’s heart raced; somehow, being too near or too far both felt wrong.
He was entranced by the warm scent filling the blankets, yet at a loss for what to do.
The next moment, Shang Xi scooped the entire snake into his arms. Coaxing it like a pet, he drawled lazily, “Just sleep right here. No more fussing about spots.”
Nightingales had only a shallow hibernation instinct by nature. From the moment he finished speaking, Shang Xi was asleep in mere seconds.
The little snake lay there with eyes wide open, not daring to move even in the arms of the one it adored.
Several seconds passed before it remembered how to breathe. Tentatively, it shifted a little.
Shang Xi had already drifted off into dreams and paid no mind.
The little snake curved into a faint smile, flicking its tongue to savor the scent nestled in the crook of his arm.
Then it gently wrapped its tail around his wrist, rested its chin on the back of his hand, and fell asleep just like that.
Monday brought a heavy snowfall, so the flag-raising ceremony was held inside the classroom.
Snowflakes swirled past the windows like tufts of goose down, while mist fogged the glass indoors.
The principal droned through his usual assortment of odds and ends, then abruptly changed tack toward the end.
“The weather’s turned cold over the past month, but some truly awful habits are still cropping up around school!”
“More students have been stuffing their friends and classmates into their pockets or hats, thinking they’re helping them hibernate or stay warm. That’s no good at all!”
“If you trip and fall, or your hand slips, you could squash your classmate flat like a sardine—and not even the Beast Hospital could save them then! Think about the consequences!”
“Worse still, some are fiddling with classmates’ feathers during lessons, polishing their scales—yes, and even painting nail polish on them!”
The principal bellowed, “No more of that in class! No coiling up your classmates, no playing with them. The disciplinary office will step up patrols. If you’re caught again, it’ll be a public naming and shaming; serious offenses mean demerits straight away!”
The teacher covered her face with her hand, pretending to gaze at the snow outside.
Close call—she’d nearly burst out laughing.
A few girls sighed under their breath. “I’ve still got half a tail left to paint. I really wanted to do a ring of cat’s-eye stones on the tip.”
“If you paint your scales like that, you’ll scare the life out of your parents when you go home for winter break.”
“Aw, then I’ll go French style.”
“That’s not the point!!”
That afternoon in Survival Class, Shang Xi huddled by a fire outside the tent, waiting for someone.
Fu Congxiao arrived ten minutes late, bearing a banana crepe for him.
The two polished off their snack by the stove, and before long, snow dusted their hair and eyebrows.
“Let’s head to the sheds later to sleep,” Shang Xi said. “I want to play in the snow first.”
“Sure.”
The little nightingale burst from the tent, shuddering at the initial bite of cold but stubbornly flapping through the icy wind toward the snowfield.
The cobra slithered after it. It hadn’t gone far when it spotted a certain fluffball plunge headfirst into the snow.
When it resurfaced, the little bird was a shivering, snow-crusted taro ball.
Fu Congxiao felt the cold keenly too, but he endured it patiently to keep his companion company.
Seeing him act the fool again now struck him as hilarious.
For an instant as the snow engulfed it, the little nightingale looked dazed.
The drift was so deep a human foot would slice right through without noticing, yet it buried the entire bird completely.
The little bird sneezed twice in quick succession and beat a hasty retreat toward the shed.
Snow already blanketed its body, and more piled on during the half-minute flight, transforming it into a flying snowball.
As it alighted in the shed, the supervising teacher called out.
“Shake it off before you come in! Don’t drip water everywhere.”
The little bird cheeped a touch aggrievedly and shook itself clean outside.
Fu Congxiao was well on his way to becoming a white snake. Upon entering, he made no rush to tend to himself, instead languidly licking the little bird once.
Like savoring a scoop of ice cream.
Shang Xi shot him a glare.
What, taking liberties?
Fu Congxiao licked it again.
It really was rather nice—the cool, icy texture was intriguing.
The supervising teacher had set out two disposable towels at the registration desk.
“Wipe yourselves dry before going in.”
“The school says if you find it comfy here, you’re welcome to stay overnight anytime—just don’t skip classes or exams.”
It was already the final two weeks before finals.
Before the exams, the Shang family parents had made a point of contacting the Fu Family Old Madam. After explaining their intentions, the two families shared a meal.
And just like that, it was settled: Fu Congxiao would spend the winter break staying temporarily at their home. If he grew unaccustomed, they could send him back anytime.
Fu Congxiao’s origins were known only to the old lady—not even Shang Xi himself had the faintest clue.
That family had taken a liking to Congxiao solely because the two boys got along so splendidly.
The old mansion was now a cold, silent place; there was no point forcing him to return.
The moment final exams wrapped up, they packed their bags together and wheeled their suitcases to the high-speed rail station.
From the instant they started folding clothes and shelving books, the unfamiliarity hit with crystal clarity.
It felt like a kite cut loose from its string, only for a passing bird to snatch the line and tug them both homeward.
They headed to the station as one, scanned their tickets together, and claimed their seats side by side.
Shang Xi was humming softly when he noticed Senior Brother’s unusual quiet. “Feeling off?”
Fu Congxiao shook his head.
“Too strange.”
The seats ahead held a mother and her young daughter, who at first threw a tantrum for her phone.
Her mother pulled out a book instead, and once the train hummed steadily along, read to her in hushed tones.
Shang Xi had been lost in a game with earbuds in, but a few stray words caught his ear. He tugged one bud free.
The woman was reading Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Nightingale.”
In the European tale, set in distant China, an emperor ruled over a vast imperial garden of breathtaking splendor.
Travelers to China marveled at its beauties, yet all reserved their deepest awe for one creature: the nightingale.
Shang Xi gazed out at the blurring scenery, but his ears drank in every word of the story. His mood visibly brightened.
The emperor summoned the nightingale to his palace, and its song sent the court into rapturous delight—until a gift arrived in a lavish box: a mechanical nightingale.
Bedecked in diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, it sang tirelessly for thirty renditions after a simple wind.
The true nightingale slipped away into the night.
Fu Congxiao had clocked the eavesdropping from the start. When Shang Xi’s face fell at the end, he couldn’t help but chuckle.
Shang Xi shot him a glare.
What, can’t a guy enjoy a story?
Time passed, and the mechanical bird’s strings finally snapped. Its song fell silent forever.
The emperor lay on his deathbed, beyond saving, staring as Death perched at his bedside, chattering endlessly with a throng of spectral heads.
He screamed in frenzy, desperate for any sound to drown them out, but silence engulfed him like a suffocating tide.
Then, from beyond the window, the nightingale’s voice rose once more.
Fu Congxiao froze at those words, buried memories surging up to seize his breath for several long seconds.
He knew that silence all too well—what it looked like, what it felt like.
The woman pressed on with the tale.
Even Death, unawares, fell under the spell of its melody, bartering his scepter, banner, and crown for song after song.
Longing for its garden, it dissolved into white mist and vanished.
““Please stay with me forever,” the emperor pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot grant that wish,” the nightingale replied. “Your little songbird must fly far away now.””
Fu Congxiao’s eyes narrowed, a sudden stab lancing through his chest.
The woman closed the book and murmured the final line to her dozing daughter.
“It flew away, belonging to no one.”
Shang Xi nodded, thoroughly pleased.
What a proper kindred soul—reviving that wretched emperor was just a flex of divine pity. Who’d stick around in a dump like that?
He reached up to pop his earbud back in, fingers brushing Fu Congxiao’s hand mid-motion.
Then came the firm grip, tightening just a touch.
Shang Xi turned in surprise, only to find Fu Congxiao’s gaze shadowed with unspoken melancholy, lips sealed.
He let their hands stay linked, amused.
“What, pitying the nightingale?”
“Next time, I’ll put in a word with Andersen. Get him to pen you a little snake tale.”
Passengers dragged luggage down the aisle; attendants hawked fruit trays and coffee pots.
Their clasped hands stayed hidden—one clinging to hold something close, the other making no move to pull away.
Fingertips and palms met dry and warm, the grip bringing a faint, sweet sting.
Fu Congxiao said nothing, holding on for ages before finally releasing.
Shang Xi, well accustomed to this clumsy brand of affection, never even suggested he ease up.
The journey flew by. The Shang parents waited patiently at the exit, greeting both boys with equal warmth and pitching in on the bags.
Home awaited with steaming dishes and a wild assortment of quirky snacks.
“With Congxiao staying over this time, we swapped out the beds,” Luo Suhe said, swinging open the bedroom door. “Bunks—you two figure it out.”
Shang Xi eyed the spruced-up space. “New wardrobe too!”
“Yep. Bookshelves and closets for each of you. Speak up if anything’s missing.”
Shang Heping added, “If it’s too cramped, we’ll tidy the study. You can each take a room.”
The boys mumbled something noncommittal.
“No need.”
“It’s fine.”
Luo Suhe’s eyebrow twitched, and she glanced at them again.
Their expressions remained perfectly natural and calm, nothing at all like a couple in love.
She gave up fretting over it and tugged Fu Congxiao over to see the new pot of snakeberries on the balcony.
The Shang family lacked the extravagant opulence of the Fu Family. Instead, it brimmed with an intimacy and homely warmth that Fu Congxiao had never known before.
In the kitchen, someone clattered about washing dishes. From the bathroom came the sound of someone singing off-key while showering.
After dinner, the family gathered to watch TV, munching on seeds and gossiping about celebrities’ personal lives.
He sat between them, a surreal warmth suddenly settling around him like a dream.
Shang Xi leaned in and whispered, “Why so tense? Not used to this?”
Fu Congxiao paused for a long moment before murmuring, “Feels like a dream.”
When bedtime came, Shang Xi claimed the lower bunk while Fu Congxiao climbed into the upper.
Back at school, their dorms had always been the standard bunk-over-desk setup—this was their first time sharing actual bunk beds.
Any rustle from the top bunk sent a faint tremor through the one below.
After lights-out, even the soft clicks of phone buttons rang out clearly in the darkness.
Shang Xi lay awake for ages before asking, “Senior Brother, you asleep?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Gazing up at the pitch-black slats of the bunk above, he added impulsively, “Why don’t you come down here?”
Fu Congxiao froze for a beat, then sat up. “Should I change back, then?”
“No.” The young man spoke softly. “Just like this. We’ll squeeze in together for a bit.”
No real reason—he just wanted to squeeze in close with him for a while.
