The folded outer robe rested heavy and damp in Shen Qiyao's hands, its weight a small anchor between them.
He Qing stood before him in the lighter inner layer, damp fabric clinging softly to his frame, cheeks still flushed from the cold stream and the unexpected quiet that had settled over him.
The air between them felt warmer now, touched by that brief, unguarded laughter and the gentle exchange of cloth and gaze.
Qiyao glanced down at the sodden robe, then back toward the stream where the water sparkled invitingly. A faint spark of mischief—rare and boyish—flickered in his usually reserved eyes.
"Look at this," he said quietly, almost to himself.
He Qing tilted his head, curiosity blooming across his face. "What are you thinking, Mr. Taller Shen?" he asked, voice light but threaded with genuine wonder.
He watched as Qiyao stepped back into the shallows without another word, the cool water rising once more around his calves.
Qiyao did not answer immediately. Instead, he took one edge of the outer robe's wide sleeve and pulled it free, letting the long side panel unfold like a makeshift net.
He waded deeper, the current tugging gently at his legs. With careful, deliberate movements, he lowered the cloth into the water, holding it open with both hands while his feet shifted slowly against the pebbles.
His long black hair swayed with each step, the ends brushing the surface like ink on silver. He moved upstream first, then turned with the flow, letting the water guide him—hands and legs working in quiet rhythm, stirring the current just enough.
He Qing stood on the bank, arms loosely crossed, watching with careful attention.
The playful energy in him had quieted into focused stillness; he followed every motion—the way Qiyao's refined features concentrated, the subtle shift of muscle beneath wet sleeves, the patient grace in each step.
Sunlight danced on the water around Qiyao's form, turning the scene into something almost dreamlike.
After several quiet seconds, Qiyao lifted the cloth slowly from the stream.
Water poured through the weave in bright rivulets, but trapped within the folds, a handful of tiny silver fish darted and flashed—small as coins, lively and glistening.
He Qing's eyes widened.
Qiyao straightened, a small, satisfied smile touching his lips as he carried the makeshift catch back toward the bank. "It's not a big fish like you promised," he said, voice calm and dry once more, though warmth lingered beneath it, "but we can still have fish tonight. Grilled with a little ginger and scallion, perhaps."
He Qing stepped closer, peering into the cloth with open surprise. The tiny fish flicked their tails frantically, silver bodies catching the light like scattered stars. "How—? What really happened just now?" he asked, voice rising with genuine astonishment. "One moment you were just walking in the water, and the next… these little ones appeared like magic!"
Qiyao carefully lowered the cloth to let most of the water drain, keeping the fish safely contained. "When you put a small cloth deep in the water and walk with the current," he explained, tone steady and patient, the way one might describe a simple household ritual, "the fish sometimes get swept along and trapped inside when you lift it out. It's not certain, but there's a chance—especially in shallow pools like this."
He Qing's face lit up, excitement bubbling over like the stream itself. He clapped his hands once, leaning in closer, his voice taking on the animated tone of old fishermen boasting at the market.
"Like the big nets the village men use at the river mouth! They drag them through the deep water and pull up baskets full—ha! But this… this is clever, sneaky even. Using your own robe like a secret net. Zhēn de, I never thought of that!"
Qiyao gave a soft nod, the corner of his mouth lifting again. "Yeah… kind of like that."
The words had barely left his lips when He Qing straightened, eyes sparkling with renewed mischief and determination. He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the still-damp cloth as if claiming it for himself.
"I want to try it too," he declared, voice bright and resistant to any protest. "Right now. Before the little ones swim away and tell all their friends to hide."
The silver stream chuckled on around them, sunlight warming the mossy stones, while two figures stood close on the bank—tiny flashing fish between them, and the slow, tender rhythm of shared discovery weaving ever tighter around their quiet afternoon.
He Qing accepted the damp outer robe with both hands, eyes sparkling with determination. "Watch me, Mr. Taller Shen. I'll show you how a real fisherman does it."
He waded back into the stream, the lighter inner layer fluttering around his legs. Qiyao remained on the bank, arms loosely folded, watching as the younger man lowered the cloth into the water exactly as he had demonstrated.
He Qing moved slowly at first, then with growing confidence, stepping with the current and stirring the pebbles gently beneath his feet. The fabric billowed like a pale net beneath the surface.
The minutes stretched pleasantly in the quiet valley. Sunlight drifted lower, turning the water to warm gold.
He Qing tried again and again—sometimes too eager, sending the tiny fish scattering in bright silver bursts; sometimes too still, catching nothing but drifting leaves.
Each small failure drew a soft, self-mocking laugh from him, never discouraged, only more playful. Qiyao offered quiet corrections when needed, his voice low and patient against the stream's steady murmur.
At last, after many careful passes, He Qing lifted the cloth with a small sound of triumph. Inside fluttered nearly two handfuls of the tiny silver fish, their bodies flashing like scattered moonlight.
Qiyao's lips curved. "That should be more than enough for tonight. Let's head back to the shrine before the light fades completely."
He Qing nodded, cheeks flushed from effort and pleasure.
He drained the excess water with care, then passed the bundled cloth back. Qiyao took it, along with the wet robe, carrying everything in his arms so He Qing could walk unburdened.
They began the slow climb along the mountain path. The air had cooled, fragrant with pine and damp earth.
Sunlight slanted through the bamboo in shifting columns of gold and shadow. As they walked, He Qing's gaze caught on clusters of wild berries growing beside the trail—small, deep red, glistening like drops of summer.
"Look," he said softly.
Qiyao paused without a word, reached up, and plucked a handful. He passed the berries to He Qing, then took the bundled fish and wet robe fully into his own arms so the younger man could eat freely.
He Qing popped one into his mouth; the tart sweetness burst across his tongue. Juice stained his fingertips as they continued upward, shoulders brushing now and then on the narrow path.
The conversation flowed between them like the stream they had left behind.
"Have you done this before?" He Qing asked, licking berry juice from his thumb. "The cloth trick… where did you learn it?"
Qiyao's steps remained even, his long black hair swaying gently with each stride. "When I was younger. My father took me to the river a few times during summer. He always said a man should know how to feed himself with whatever the world offers."
He Qing hummed, pleased. "It suits you. Quiet… and clever."
They walked on. The sun dipped lower, brushing the treetops with amber light.
Qiyao carried the damp bundle without complaint, while He Qing moved lighter beside him, occasionally sharing quiet remarks about the changing colors of the leaves or the way the bamboo whispered overhead.
After a stretch of comfortable silence, He Qing's voice softened.
"Hey… Mr. Taller Shen." He glanced sideways, lashes lowered. "Yesterday at the shrine… and again just now in the valley… why don't you ever call it a home?"
Qiyao was quiet for a long moment. The path curved gently upward, the old shrine gate now visible through the trees in the distance. His fingers tightened slightly around the bundled cloth.
The question lingered between them like evening mist—gentle, patient, waiting.
They continued walking, the gate drawing nearer with every step, the small silver fish still flickering faintly inside the damp robe, and the slow, tender rhythm of their shared day carrying them home beneath the setting sun