The chamber was even dimmer than the open hall outside, which at least had a few lanterns hanging and throwing firelight. Here, there was no supplementary brightness to what was borrowed through the screen.
Jia Yang closed the door, shutting the slick and grinning face of the owner behind it, feeling oddly relieved despite the even stranger atmosphere and knowledge that there was another man concealed somewhere in the darkness. In the air was a faint smell that he could not quite place. It seemed to be almost metallic, rather unpleasant as he inhaled each breath through his nose.
He vaguely felt as though he had slipped into a coffin and now had to grope around for its inhabitant corpse.
The youth's mouth was dry, but he swallowed anyway before trying: "Mn, is there no light here?" For all his discomposure, the voice he managed was still forceful and unwavering.
There was a rustle of silken sheets and then a shadowy figure, practically invisible until one screwed up his eyes, slipped soundlessly across the width of the room. A tremble shivered its cold charge up Jia Yang's spine, his subconscious registering that this man moved as gracefully and nimbly as a water-strider flickering over a still pond. Had his feet even touched the ground?
Being the young master of a noble household, Jia Yang naturally had studied the martial and sword arts starting from he was able to walk. Whether or not he was talented—or even proficient—at them was a different story in itself, but he had paid enough attention throughout a childhood of lessons to know that this stranger moved like an accomplished expert.
At the scraping of a sulphur-dipped pinestick, Jia Yang arrested his speculations. The initial burst of light not only drew his eyes but also straightened his wandering and wayward thoughts. And as if entranced, his gaze drifted down the match, trailed along the illuminated fingers that held it, and jumped up onto the profile set newly aglow.
If he was allowed one word to describe that face, it would have no doubt been "emaciated." The courtesan did not spare Jia Yang a look as he lowered the pinestick to meet the used wick of a candle, cupping a bony hand around to screen the marriage from view, shielding it from wind where there was none.
Jia Yang became suddenly hyper-aware of all the bones, tendons, and veins in his neck and fingers as he examined the other's skeletal frame; how was that body even capable of breathing, much less standing or hastening as he had earlier? Although, after reconsidering, it would have explained the apparently weightless quality to his movement.
Merely watching the man's activity, Jia Yang grew uneasy. Every part appeared as if it was strung together through sheer force of will and chance: a single false touch or harsh reproach away from snapping and giving. At the same time, there was a reason it was "emaciated" and not a term like "delicate" or "frail." Wherever one glanced, joints jutted and protrusions pitched sharp contours, yet it was clear that there had once been muscle now starved and wasted away. He might even have been passably good-looking back when there was a bit of flesh on him. What a shame.
In truth, their outward constitutions were not so dissimilar; they were roughly the same height and Jia Yang himself was about as thin, but that was standard for a still-growing adolescent, the slimness rendering him more spirited than sickly. The courtesan, contrastingly, brought the saying of "half in the grave" to mind. If his long and ink-black hair had not been tied loosely back, he very well could have passed for the painting of a vengeful wraith.
As Jia Yang took in the deepened eye sockets above sunken cheeks and jaw, he felt something in his chest itch. Much to the disdain of his maidservants and father, he had always been rather fond of sneaking in stray mutts or fledglings estranged from their nest. His pity was too easily stirred by poor and helpless animals, but the "animal" now before him was a grown man! Had someone been observing Jia Yang's fixation from the side, they might have really mistaken that he had fallen in love at first sighting.
The courtesan finally turned toward Jia Yang and, without a phrase of greeting or apology, stumbled his way toward the disheveled bed. There was no remnant of his previous fluency, making Jia Yang wonder if it had simply been an illusion in the murk.
Seeing that he was a man of few words, Jia Yang spoke up to question: "What is your name?"
"Xiao-yan."
"Which character for 'yan?'" He pressed further, finding no other topic and so expanding on the mundane. While speaking, he stepped in the direction of the low tea table and discerned the courtesan's blank stare following him, as though perplexed.
"The 'yan' as in 'swallow.'" This second response was more hesitant and slightly longer than its antecedent. Sitting down and listening, Jia Yang noticed that the man's pronunciation was improper and had a heavy accented lilt; additionally, the structure of his sentence was unusual, denoting that his mother tongue was not a dialect from nearby but outside of their kingdom entirely.
The youth studied him again and indeed found the structure of his eyes and brows a shade foreign, so he asked: "Where are you from?"
Maybe the man had never heard this inquiry before, as he did not answer for an extended stretch of time. In the end, he ignored it altogether and tagged one of his own: "Atop bed?" Jia Yang would never have guessed that was a question had it not been for the upward inflection of its delivery.
The courtesan began to undo the red sash above his hips, the waist so recessed that it was painful to even look upon. His crimson robes—more like a blanket than real clothing—were designed to be flayed loose and open at the front, but he was so slight that it swallowed him whole and shrouded everything below his collarbones. That exposed enough for Jia Yang to formulate an array of assumptions. The purples encircling the base of the neck were most severe, with fresher bruises and bite impressions decorating his throat unevenly.
From the beginning, messing around naked under the sheets with a prostitute had never been his intention. At the speed of the development, Jia Yang shifted his gaze and shook his head, thinking and sighing inwardly, 'An adult man reduced to this state of existence, stolen from his place of birth and having to endure maltreatment from beasts. Death might really be preferable to a continuation of life.'
Curious at the other's reaction, Jia Yang expected that he might be bewildered by the rejection or grateful at the mercy. Out of all the options in his mind, the youth did not include an event in which the courtesan would silently roll onto his side, fronting onto the empty wall, like in preparation for sleep.
With solely a wax candle burning, the gloom of the chamber was truly effective in lulling an individual—even the young and excitable with endless vitality—into exhaustion. Just before nodding off himself, Jia Yang remembered the linen bag he had brought with him. Startled awake, he elevated it onto the table and hurriedly unknotted the string clasp.
Creased and stuffed inside were a few vegetable pancakes he had purchased from a street vendor. Not particularly appetized by the drooping and soft appearance, he peeked at the resting silhouette on the bed. He gave no loud breaths and Jia Yang could only see the back of the male courtesan's body, so he was unable to detect if the man was fast asleep.
"Are you hungry?" He called out gently. Fearing to wake the other, Jia Yang hushed the volume of his voice to the best of his ability while still having it audible. The youth was normally not so considerate, but the courtesan's tragic condition in his perception had created a special circumstance.
There was nothing beyond the indistinct muttering and love-making of their neighbors that interrupted in reply.
"Xiao-yan?" He attempted again. And again, resembling before, there was nothing.
Resigned and yawning, Jia Yang retied and set aside the bag of vegetable pancakes. He folded his elbows into each other atop the table and slumped over to nestle his forehead upon them. His thoughts were wiped of anything outside of the overwhelming desire for sleep—he was too weary to assess the stiffness and aching such a posture might inspire in the morning, too weary to muse on the concessions he had made for a complete stranger.
The noble young master who had surrendered a handful of silver taels slumbering and slack against a tea table. The untouched male prostitute curled up alone on the silken bedsheets. The distant grunts and moans of sex encompassing them in that otherwise noiseless stillness. It was truly an unspeakably peculiar arrangement.