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Ao Bing remembers someone.
It's hard to put an exact face to him, and if you asked him for a name, he can't answer. It's difficult, trying to remember, but he knows that he's real. The person from a distant memory. The warmth that starts in his chest and spreads at the distant laugh, a distant smile.
He tells his daughter stories, of him. The stranger from his memories. The boy he swears he once knew, someone he swears once existed.
“We used to play jianzi,” he would say, a distant look in his eyes. “And he used to bite me. A lot.”
“Papa,” his sweet girl would say. “I bite you all the time too!”
And he would smile, gentle and affectionate, and pinch her chin affectionately.
“You do,” he would say. “You would've liked him.”
“If he existed,” she would correct, and Ao Bing would, yet again, sigh.
“If he existed,” he agrees.
***
His first memory of this world is your face.
He remembers waking up. The blinding sunlight makes his eyes hurt―he flinches, a sleeve covering his hand as he lays on the cold dirt. The scent of wet grass hits him. He realizes with vague clarity that it's been raining, the dirt moist against his fingertips, and a faint drizzle that cools his warm cheeks and sticks his robes onto his body.
It'll be a pain to clean from his hair, he realizes as he forces himself up. And oh, look. His new robes are dirty, the white fabric soiled with the grass stains and….
He squints.
Is that blood? He asks himself, holding his sleeve to what little light is visible from the sun, hidden behind angry, grey clouds. Why would there be blood on my―
“Hey.”
The faint drizzle ceases. Ao Bing lowers his arm, following the shadow that suddenly crosses him.
It's a parasol, faint pink and covered in strange patterns he's not sure he can decipher. Someone is holding it (obviously), and he follows the wrist connected to an arm, and that arm to a shoulder, higher and higher, until his gaze meets yours.
The other thing, Ao Bing was amused to admit, is that your smile felt familiar. As if he should have known, should have been able to put a finger to the way your lips curved and a dimple appears on one cheek, the gleam in your eyes that feels familiar.
Where have I seen you before?
“You lost, big guy?” Your voice cuts through the confusion that clouds his mind. “Listen, guy. I know I'm amazingly beautiful, but you barely know my name. Though if you ask….”
You trail off, or maybe Ao Bing loses focus. It's hard to pinpoint when there's a sudden pain in his head, a sharp, stabbing sensation that makes him flinch, two cold fingers pressed into his temple. He's acutely aware of the fact his fingers are digging into the soil (gross), and his body aches with a phantom pain he can't quite put a finger on.
Something wet seeps through his robes. It takes a second to realize it's blood (oh dear), and it's so red, and so much. Is he meant to be bleeding that much? It's a lot….
“Are you bleeding?” Ao Bing doesn't point out that your question is not helping. “Jesus― fuck. Um. Don't die―”
Yes, because I can control that apparently.
“I heard that.” Oh. “Come on, big guy. Gotta get you back….”
Someone, he assumes it's you, is wrapping their arms around him, and he's pulled to his feet. His head spins, or maybe the world spins, and he just can not keep track of heads or trails of his situation.
The last thing he hears, briefly, is a flurry of curses that escapes your mouth. He doesn't find the time to tell you cursing is improper, especially for a young lady.
When he wakes up again, he's lying on a cozy bed. There's no gentle pitter-patter of raindrops falling against his skin, unfortunately, but there is the gentle warmth of a fire that relaxes the ache in his joints for a moment or two, and a soft bed, he prefers, over the feeling of solid ground against his back.
He still flinches, though, at the blinding light that is again, the first thing he sees. It takes a moment to adjust, his eyes watering from the faint smoke that curls in spirals around the room. As he sits, he notices the red checkered blanket that falls onto his lap, and a fireplace where he finds himself lying.
It's…quite homely, he realizes. Not familiar, but also reminiscent of a memory he can't place.
As he stares and ogles (shameless, he knows), he fails to notice when the door to the room opens, and the click-clacking of heels echoes through the room. It's not until your hand, so warm, is pressed against his forehead, and your frowning face appears in his sights, that he snaps his gaze away from the seashells he recognizes on top of your fireplace to you.
“You're alive,” you grumbled, shoving him back against the futon. He complies, surprisingly, becoming obediently still as you tuck him back under the covers.
Of course, he only chooses to obey because of the faint pain wracking through his body. Oh, right. I'm injured.
“You saved me,” he says. Not a question, and not much of a remark, but more of a factual statement. Who else had saved him if not you, the stranger with an attitude that feels familiar? “Thank you.”
“Mnh.” His eyes are glued to your back as you stand. First, to the fireplace, adding another log and poking at the ashes. Then, to the opposite side, where a table is, he finally notices. You hold what seem to be a glass bottle biege in color, and a metal spoon.
Ao Bing internally grimaces.
“Well. Last thing I need right now is for someone to think I committed a murder.” You sit on the edge of the futon, bottle and spoon tucked away while helping him into a more comfortable position. Additional pillows are propped behind his back, of which he finds comfortable enough to try and relax against. “Open up, pretty boy.”
He stares at the spoon, filled with a strange liquid that resembles mucus.
“I must decline,” he says politely.
You raise a brow, that familiar glint in your eyes. “Oh, but I must insist,” you say, your tone riddled with amusement that feels like mockery. “For if you don't take this medicine, you'll probably die.”
He thinks through his options, then nods. “I will die with dignity, then.”
Your eye twitches at his tone. Ao Bing hopes it is from irritation―he doesn't know why, but he thinks your reaction would be much more funnier, somehow.
And of course, you don't seem to care. You're grabbing the front of his lapels, shoving that metal spoon with mucus liquid down his throat, and ugh, it tastes just as he expects it would. Disgusting.
How he manages to keep a straight face is nothing short of a mystery.
He turns to glare at you in an attempt to express his displeasure, naturally, but you're smiling, looking as pleased as a plum, and how can he bring himself to glare when it feels so familiar?
“So, pretty boy,” you say while standing to cover that started mucus medicine. “Do you have a name?”
What a silly question. “Ao Bing.”
You snort at him. Or, more specifically, at his sarcastic tone. “Alright, relax tough guy. No need to be hostile.” You spare him a glance. “I'm (Name).”
He repeats your name, once. It rolls of his tongue pleasantly, and he almost wants to repeat it. Perhaps if he says it enough time, he would be able to remember that thing at the back of his mind, a soft droning voice that he knows he should remember properly, that he knows he ought to listen too.
But thinking too hard makes his head ache. He stops, rubbing his temples as you re-approach him, this time with a silver tray. Hopefully, it's not anything that tastes or resembles mucus.
(It isn't, thank the heavens.)
“Ao Bing,” you repeat, setting the tray on his lap. “So, pretty boy―” Again with the nickname. “Why the hell were you lying on the ground? Especially in this weather?”
Ao Bing shrugs.
“Alright.” You nudge his cheek with another spoon. It's soup (thank the heavens, again), so he has no problem opening his mouth this time to take a mouthful. It tastes better too. And he finds himself staring at the spoon and your hand. “Then do you know why you were injured?”
This time, he glances at himself, noticing the white linen cloth wrapped around his mid-section, and a loose white robe covering his body. He picks at the cloth out of habit, frowning.
He was in a fight. He knows he was in a fight, because how else could he have gotten this injured?
….
But he can't remember why. It was important, that he knew. He was fighting for someone dear to him, wasn't he? To protect someone else? For…for his…family? Friends?
Ao Bing shakes his head in silent response to you. “I don't remember.”
He sees you frown, your brows furrowing, and your lips parted. You must've wanted to say something, but just like that, you falter and shake your head.
“Finish your food,” you say, holding another mouthful of soup to his lips. “Then rest.”
***
You had no idea what you were doing.
No, really. The one time you chose to leave your cabin for some groceries, you just had to run into some gorgeous stranger lying on the ground like he was some love interest from those weird shoujo manga you used to read. And of course, because your luck was utter shit, the guy was also injured.
Fuck, fuck fuckity fuck fuck. You run your hands through your hair, pacing the room back and forth, over and over.
The guy, er, Ao Bing, was fine. Ish. When you half-dragged, half-carried him back to your little cottage on the seaside, and stripped him from his heavy ass robes, you discovered the source of the bloodstains. The wounds though, weren't severe enough that you'd need to waste your time calling an ambulance, so you used what medical knowledge you knew from your dear old dad, wrapped him up and then prayed that he wouldn't die in your hands.
And he didn't, hallejuah. The gods listened to your prayers for once.
“I don't remember.”
To a degree, anyway. Because now, instead of getting rid of him once he felt better, you had to keep him around. If you didn't, you'd feel awful knowing you kicked some guy with no memory and possibly no family out on the streets.
“Maybe he's from a rich family?” Your dad comments from his end on your call, his voice light and warm. You can see him in the middle of cooking, stirring a pot of some awful concunction he came up with. “Have you looked for any missing person posters?”
You shake your head. Though you swear you didn't mean to stare, closer inspection of your “pretty boy” had you admiring how soft and delicate his skin is compared yours. He clearly had never worked a day in his life.
Also, the hair….you'd be better off believing the ghost in your wardrobe exists than that light blue color being that guy's natural hair.
“Checked. No one's missing their delicate little flower,” you comment, leaning against the armchair with a groan. “Ugh. Now what do I do? He's got no memory of anything.”
“Then why don't you just keep him?” Your dad, bless his soul, ignores your glare. He's probably too preoccupied with also ignoring the fire that blazes on the stove behind him. In about a few seconds, you know that your brothers will come rushing in, and another meal will end in disaster because your dad persists on trying to burn the house down.
And he still has the audacity to wonder why you're an arsonist.
“You can use the company,” he continues on. “And he seems like a decent fellow. He's nice―”
“We've barely spoken much.”
“―he's pretty―”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“―and I'm sure he'll appreciate you helping him.” He gives you a look. “Your kindness won't go to waste. And even if it does, it's better to waste your kindness than to show none at all, right?”
You shrug. “We'll see then. Good night, Dad. And your pot’s on fire.”
“Oh.”
***
Ao Bing recovers exceptionally fast. It takes at least a week, and by then, he’s restless. You can't count the number of times you've had to run after him trying to escape through your backdoor, itching to explore.
It worsens when he discovers you live near a sea. You have to promise him you'll take him yourself once you're certain he no longer needs to wear bandages.
It's like watching a child. Ao Bing runs through the sand, looking ridiculous in the clothing you lent him, and he tries to walk too far into the sea. You have to pull him back by the collar, pleading with him not to kill himself and worsen your reputation with the police.
“I like the sea,” he says to you, staring out the window that overlooks the beach. “It feels familiar to me. Like it's where I belong.”
You munch on a sandwich. “Did you grow up near it, then?”
He shakes his head, a finger tracing the rim of his porcelain teacup. There's a distant look to his eyes as he stares at the waves crashing on the sandy seashore, the scent of sea-salt that had grown on you, and the familiarity of the murky clouds always lurking in the distance.
He still doesn't remember.
He's trying, believe him, he's trying. There's a gnawing ache in his heart, a yearning for someone. Something.
Sometimes, he'll dream of faces ― a rough voice that stutters, a scary face that gentles when they see him. An angry, chubby face screaming his name.
“Maybe because you're my only friend?”
He glances at you, still chewing on something, sandwiches finished. If he looks hard enough, he'd notice it's a piece of fruit, a strawberry maybe, and you're snarfing them down like you haven't had a meal in forever, juices dripping down your chin and dribbling on your fingers.
It's cute, and he smiles slightly when you choke and stop to take a breather. You're cute, and Ao Bing has to look away as he recalls what little you had told him in the past week, a sorry attempt at keeping him from roaming off.
“I was too violent as a kid. People didn't like me much. But it's fine. I didn't need friends anyway.”
It's not fine to Ao Bing. Even one friend should be enough ― and he knows what he's saying! He has a friend too!
…
Well. Had a friend. He can't remember his face, but he remembers his voice, giggling and filled with mischief. He remembers that they used to play jianzi together, and there's still a faint scar from when he bit him on their first meeting.
Why had they met again? Oh, bother. He can't remember either.
“You're my friend,” he says to you, out loud, and he smiles faintly when you look at him, messy face and all. “Just so you know.”
“Oh.” You blink. Your eyes dart back and forth, at his face and gentle smile, and at your strawberry covered hands. “Um. Thank you?”
He chuckles and takes a sip of his tea, pretending not to notice your huffing at his amusement, especially at your expense.
However, a minute later, you clear your throat and respond ever so softly,
“You're…my only friend. Too…”
***
“You're my friend. Just so you know that.”
Um. What the flying flipping fuck!?
When had you ever heard those words? And, most importantly, why the fuck did they have such an affect on you!?
You didn't know what to think! Since he spoke those words, Ao Bing's been so, so weird. He's been smiling more, all pretty and delicate, and his cheeks are always so fucking red when he looks at you, and, and…
And what the fuck!?
You wanted to dig a hole and bury yourself in it. Maybe throw yourself into the sea and drown too. That would help the fire (not literally) burning through your fucking veins!!!
It's so stupid. This feeling in your chest is stupid.
He's just being nice, that's all. He's indebted to you, as one normally would in his situation. He's grateful you saved his life and gave him a home, so why else would he think to consider you his ‘friend’? He's only being polite.
So it doesn't matter if you genuinely feel the same, and you like that he's here, and you like that the loneliness that haunts you is no longer present because he's here, with you. He makes you feel less lonely, and you like that feeling….
But he's only being polite. You stare up at the ceiling, pretending the occasional firefly is a spark of flame. He's being nice because he has nowhere else to go. He doesn't actually mean it.
You sigh and turn on your side. It's pointless worrying, and it's even more pointless complaining. What's done is done anyway ― you can't hate Ao Bing for lying in an attempt to stay. The most important thing is that he's safe.
And lying in bed with you, his skin cold and soothing compared to yours. You almost want to snuggle into his chest, and you do, and his arms are wrapped around you.
So cold….wait …
Your eyes snap open, and in your hastiness to move, the back of your head knocks him on the chin. He yelps, and you yelp, and then you're pushing off the bed, falling flat on your back on the unwelcoming wooden floor.
The bedside lamp is flicked on. Ao Bing peers down at you ― there's bruising already on his delicate skin, and wisps of pale blue hair are falling from the ponytail you've tied for him. It frames his face perfectly, given him a welcoming appearance that makes your heart race.
“Are you alright?” He asks sweetly, offering you a hand. You're not aware you've accepted it until he's already pulled you up back on the bed, cold hands cupping your slowly burning face, angling your head to meet his gaze. “You fell pretty hard. I'm sorry, did I startle you?”
You gape. Why is he touching you, and why is he being so nice?
And most importantly, why the fuck was he on your bed!?
“Um….” You try to place your thoughts into words. “Bed. You're in my bed.”
Ao Bing looks down at your rumpled covers and nods. “Yes. Is that a problem? It's big enough, no? And you've complained about feeling warm so often, and my skin is cold, so I decided it would help you sleep better.”
You gulp. “You're in my bed.”
“Yes? Haven't we already established this?”
Sometimes you wonder if memory loss wasn't the only problem he had.
“Ao Bing. You're in my bed.” You squirm out of his hold, slapping his hands away. “Without an invitation might I add! You can't just. Fucking pull up on me like that! At least warn me!”
God. You had just cuddled into him. Your fucking reputation was ruined….wait. No one else speaks to him ― nevermind, it's probably safe for the time.
“But. You like me, don't you?” Ao Bing insists, his hands now neatly sitting on his lap instead of trying to touch you. “And normally, couples should share a bed.”
“We aren't a couple.”
“We aren't?”
“No!!” What the fuck is he yapping about!?
Ao Bing's mouth makes an ‘o’ shape. His delicately trimmed brows furrow, and he holds his chin as he thinks. You'd like nothing more than to flick his forehead, if only you weren't currently reeling from shock, surprise and trying your best not to pass out or beat him to death with a pillow.
He looks up at you again and smiles.
“I forgot. Miss (Name), will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
“...”
You beat him with the pillow then fainted right after.
***
Ao Bing wants to sulk.
He's spent weeks, weeks, looking through the books, magazines and even your laptop for advice and ideas. Weeks trying to discover what he should do, how he should express his fondness for you. In the back of his mind, there would've been someone he would've naturally gone too, a father figure or a friend, but thinking about it hurts his head (and heart), so he looks for other things.
But not only do you chase him with your pillow for half the night, but you reject him!
Well, not really….but “marriage is too early for a relationship like this” does count as a rejection.
And it makes him so unhappy, because being around you makes him forget that he yearns for people he can't recall. Being around you makes him forget the fact he might possibly be without friend or family, with no one else but a stranger who saved his life and he's now completely in love with.
He holds onto your jacket, allowing you to lead him through different aisles, picking up different things to place in a grocery cart. Sometimes, just to piss you off, he'll grab something unconventional, like a bag of fish chips that you don't need, but you only throw it into your cart and keep walking.
“We should start slow, Ao Bing.”
He's not aware why you said that. He's not aware you want to give him an option to find someone else, to pick someone else, and rushing headfirst would make both sides hurt.
All he knows is you're being insufferable, like a friend he once knew. And thinking of that friend makes his heart hurt again, so he throws another box of cereal into your cart and sulks at you.
You pinch his cheek this time. “Cut that out. Aren't you supposed to be an adult?”
Ao Bing sniffs, but he can't say he minds it. It's the first time you've touched him in days, and your touch is comforting.
“Don't care,” he says in an ever so perceptive tone, watching you roll your eyes and shift away from him. “The cereal looks good.”
You glanced at the box he's chosen. “Lucky charms huh? Alright, fine. We'll have it.”
He expects you to pull away, to leave after you've said your piece.
But no. Your hand withdraws from his cheek but you're holding his hand, pulling him behind you.
It's better than nothing, at least. Ao Bing stops sulking and trails along behind you, his expression pleased as ever.
And if someone calls him a lovesick puppy while talking to you, well. Who cares.
You did, just so we're clear. You cared a lot when someone called Ao Bing trailing behind you a lovesick puppy, and you absolutely did fucking care when they called him your boyfriend.
It's not…like that! You brought him out to find new options, not let everyone think you two were solid!
Perfect. You sigh in your hands as he unpacks the groceries, placing them where they needed to be. Just fucking perfect. How the fuck is he supposed to get a girlfriend now!?
You dare to raise your head. He's still walking back and forth, a pleased smile on his expression. You notice that he'll glance at you, his cheeks turning a cute shade of red, and he'll dart off to the kitchen, leaving you feeling all hot and bothered.
Stupid fucking…. You curse and pinch the bridge of your nose. Ao Bing….come on my guy…
It takes a while, but the groceries are packed, and he sits with you on the sofa, staring at you, or at the tablet in your hands. You're hoping it's the latter as you shift in place, pretending to be focused on the blurry pictures on the screen.
Except you can't. You're more than aware of the gentle sounds of his breathing, and the brief skin contact that reminds you just how cold he really is. You're more than aware that he isn't staring at the device in your hand, but at you, at your face. You're made more aware of his presence as he closes the space to tuck a strand of fallen hair behind your ear once more, his fingertips brushing against your cheeks.
You close your eyes and sigh.
“Ao Bing?” You ask softly, raising your head to him. He tilts his head to show that he's listening, waiting for your response. “Why do you like me?”
The question has bothered you since his first confession. What was there to like about you? Being friends was one thing, but to like, like romance?
It's…odd.
Ao Bing blinks at you. His lashes are soft and full, and you want to desperately touch them.
You don't, of course. You have more proprietary than that.
“You remind me of someone I once knew,” he says, reigning you back to reality.
“What were they like?”
“I don't remember.” The smile he wears is nothing if not mournful. His gaze drifts to the fireplace, the crackle of wood burning in the background. You can see him fidgeting, his nails digging into his skin. Not hard enough to bleed, but with his skin so pale, it'd be difficult to miss the crescent marks. “All I remember…was that we were close. He was one of my first friends, you know.”
His tone is gentle, nostalgic. If you didn't know better, you'd even say there's something else. Something that tells you he felt more for this person than just ‘friends.’
“....I miss him. But I don't even remember his name.” Ao Bing glances at you. “But you remind me of him. Your smile, your attitude―” He reaches out, his thumb and index finger cold against your cheek as he squeezes. “When I'm with you, I feel like I'm with him.”
You don't know what to think. So you like me because I remind you of your friend you don't even remember!?
Maybe your expression is too obvious. Ao Bing laughs, a sweet sound that makes you feel warm within. He leans closer, your thighs pressing, and he gently pokes at your forehead.
“No. I like you because you're you.” He explains ever-so-nicely. “The memory is merely an added factor.”
“I feel offended still,” you complain, and he laughs. His arms wrap around you in turn, his face pressed into your shoulder.
“No need. I love you as I loved him. You're as different as you are similar.”
His arms squeeze you, just slightly. You can almost feel his smile against your skin as he continues, “But…I'm more than willing to show you myself, if you will let me.”
***
Ao Bing's hands are cold, as he is rough. Sweet words fall from his lips, even as they're pressed everywhere ― your pulse, chest, thighs…
Your hands leave blaring red marks on his skin. He doesn't seem to mind though, as his do the same.
His cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes halfclosed. His hair, loose, falls, perfectly draping his face.
“You're pretty,” he murmurs, and kisses you, hard. His teeth, sharp, nips at your lower lip, and he pulls back. “I love you.”
You can't bring yourself to answer.
But it's fine. He knows by the scrunch of your nose, and the angry pout you wear as you angle your head away, that you feel the same.
And he doesn't mind, not really.
Because he likes you too much to care.
***
Ao Bing's daughter looks nothing like you. She has her father's eyes, deep and almost knowing, and his pale skin. Her hair is a much darker shade of blue, but even so, it's impossible to miss.
You remember your elder brothers giggling at you, joking that there was no way the bloodline would continue with such genes. They even remark that they were surprised their little sister could even have children, that the possibilities of you capable of procreating was almost zero to none. If it hadn't been your father, bless him, shooing them out of the room while you recovered from labour, you would've most likely jumped out of the bed to show them what for.
Ao Bing was a good father. He sat with you for the few days you were in the hospital, never leaving your side unless it was to check your baby.
“What do you think we should name her?” Ao Bing had asked, his hand fitting nicely with yours. “Perhaps..maybe…”
“Lánxī.”
Ao Bing had spared you a glance. During the months since you discovered you were pregnant, you had insisted and pestered that everything be up to Ao Bing's decision. Though you weren't determined to be an absent mother, it wasn't like you really knew what the hell it meant to be one. You were the last child of your family, practically babied!
To his memory, Ao Bing had a feeling that he was a last child too. Though the memory was still foggy, all but a blur in his mind, he knew somewhere that he was a last child too. The third born, maybe.
Still, he never was one to deny you. He did as you ordered and asked, and so to hear you at that moment was a surprise.
“Lánxī,” he repeated, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “Do you want it?”
“Mhm.” You smiled tiredly at him. “Do you want it?”
He smiled. Nodding his head as he kissed your knuckles. “I want it,” he said, bringing his chair closer to yours. “As long as you do.”
“A temple?” You looked up from where you had little Lánxī sitting, wiping the smudge of porridge from her chubby cheek. “You want to visit a temple?”
Ao Bing nodded. He flashed his sweet girl a smile, his heart melting at the sight of her cooing, small fists waving wildly. She giggled and cooed, stuffing that fist in her mouth while you fussed over her.
“Your father says…that your family has been longtime worshippers of Nezha.” Something about that name felt heavy on his tongue.
In the time that he spent getting to know your family, he had learnt and discovered a few things. One of them that had stuck out to him was the fact they were religious. He remembered, you had mentioned it, hadn't you? That you barely had time to pay a visit to a temple, though you missed going?
“Would you want too?” He remembered asking, watching your expression nervously. “I won't force you, of course.”
“Eh.” You had shrugged, offering another spoonful to little Lánxī. “Sure. Why not?”
So here he is now. Lánxī sits in the little carrier he wears, sleepily peacefully against his chest. She always seems to sleep easier with him than you. Though you always sulked about it, Ao Bing always assured you that it wasn't a case of favoritism. His daughter simply preferred the coolness of his body compared to yours.
He stares at the statue before him, his head tilted. Something about it feels familiar, the wavy hair carved from stone, the painted red crescents on its cheekbones.
“Nezha,” he repeats to himself, a soft murmur. As if he has to remind himself something.
He glances at you, your hands clasped together before the statue. A warmth spreads ― side by side, a statue and his partner. There's something on the tip of his tongue, a desire to express something. That, perhaps, if he says it, he can remember.
He glances at the statue again, and swears, for a second, that he remembers.
Nezha…
Lánxī stirs. He's distracted, glancing down at the big blue eyes that blinked up at him, and Ao Bing smiles.
Maybe he'll remember, at one point. But right now, he's happy as he is.
Content.
***
“Lánxī! Don't run!”
“I'm not running, Papa!”
Nezha crosses his arms and smiles. Two familiar figures step through the threshold that leads to his temple. They could be twins, with their stances and smiles, but one of them is a girl, for a start, and is less reserved. More hyper, for lack of a better term.
He props a hand under his chin, making himself comfortable where he sits on his statue, carved for him, and watches as both kneel, offering incense and snacks that he quite enjoys.
It's been years. Decades, centuries, since he last saw him. His best friend. His only friend, really.
To see him here, in the flesh, in person. Nezha had initially thought he'd been dreaming, that this wasn't real….
But no. He was here. His Ao Bing was here, and alive.
And had a family…of his own…
Nezha almost laughs as he recalls Taiyi’s words―that Ao Bing's wife, bless her, was an almost exact copy of him. He hadn't want to believe it, at first, but the more that she had visited his temple, the more he found it harder to deny.
At least he's happy. That's what Nezha cares about. That his friend is alive, and well. Though he bares no memory and no recognition of him, Nezha doesn't care. Doesn't even mind.
Because of all else, Ao Bing is here. He visits daily, every chance he has, with his daughter Lánxī. Sometimes his wife comes, and Nezha gets to meet his family.
Time will eventually go by, was Taiyi’s words to him. On that faithful day, when Ao Bing had disappeared. And you'll forget all that was between you and him.
He hasn't. And he won't.
He'll cherish their memory. Ao Bing's, forever.
Because he loves him, and adores him. And whatever else, Ao Bing is happy.
And that's what matters.