So Yukong has a childhood friend who she calls her beloved, had to see her get married to someone else, have a kid with them, and then Caiyi dies and now Yukong raises Caiyi's kid...
Qingni asks about Caiyi, and Yukong grants her the scattered pieces of a memory.
———
“Tell me about Caiyi—about mom.”
It had become habitual, Qingni’s nightly prompt. Her words were goading, her eyes alight with a wealth of questions, and Yukong had not the fortitude to deny her.
“There was the time we overturned old Yao Fen’s jiaozi cart—”
“I know that one already.” Qingni leaned forward in her chair, fingers curling into the table cloth with youthful urgency. Her porcelain dinner plate displaced noisily with her jostling, ears flicking when she pried further, “Tell me about your skyfaring days.”
The words rang through the room like a temple bell; Yukong glanced down at her own plate, the leavings of rice and steamed fish losing their appeal now that her stomach churned. It was that old, mangled feeling, the dogged urge to turn tail, press a hand to her bruised heart and split the skies with her anguish.
Not even in her dreams did the stars shout back, apologize, but Qingni faced her now—eager, and present. Yukong swallowed the bitter tang of it, chasing down the pulp with a sip of wine, and dabbed at her lips.
“Have I told you about the time Caiyi and I snuck into the westside hangar?”
Qingni shook her head, eyes wide, already entranced—they shimmered emerald like the nexus of Yukong’s favorite constellation, one much too far, though never fading. “It was your mother’s idea to sneak past the patrolling Cloud Knights and commandeer the Helm Master’s own starskiff.”
Yukong had been terrified then. They were still ground crew, but she was smitten with the night sky, longing to glide through the cosmos, weightless. Caiyi had wanted to prove herself, keen to show off her early mastery. Precocious and steadfast and charming she always was—one tilt of her head, and Yukong was trailing close behind. The way her face lit up, too, illuminated spectral by the dashboard light, was a summon of its own.
“The Helm Master’s starskiff?” Qingni cocked her head with intrigue. “That sounds… exciting.”
Yukong narrowed her eyes, rolling the stem of her wine glass between her fingertips. “This is a precautionary tale, mind you.”
Precautionary, and yet Yukong had been winded with the thrill of it all, clinging tightly to Caiyi’s beige jumper as she led them through each memorized drill. The busy skyway below glittered, a bokeh mosaic of flashing lights—the cockpit had been silent, Caiyi’s nose scrunched in concentration, and Yukong thought, for perhaps the hundredth time, that she ought to kiss her.
Kaleidoscopic, the roving world beyond set her silhouette ablaze, and Yukong’s amusement had melted to that of thrashing hunger.
“Did you get caught?”
The apt line of questioning left Yukong humored; she laughed softly, hoping to mask the unearthed tremble in her voice. “We nearly made it out unscathed, but we fumbled somewhere near the wrought iron gates.”
It had been a quarter past midnight when they returned—Caiyi’s grin toothy, her grip strong. She wrapped her fingers around Yukong’s wrist and dragged her along; their hushed, giddy laughter filled the spaces between her ribs, leaving her lightheaded, agog. It was somewhere near the wrought iron gates that Yukong found her gall.
The floodlights of the runway had reflected off the silken sheen of Caiyi’s hair when Yukong stopped her short, tugging her backwards until they were flush, until she could taste her laughter on the tip of her tongue.
Caiyi’s silt-dusted boots squeaked loudly on the tarmac when Yukong kissed her, right beside the wrought iron gates. She held moonlight in her hands for the very first time, right beside the wrought iron gates…
“Mom?” Qingni questioned her silence with a note of concern, frowning deep enough for Yukong to clear her throat sharply. “What happened after you left the starskiff?”
She couldn’t set herself to rights if she tried, not when the time-warped memories still singed with the same scarring heat. These were the details she could not bear to disclose. The look of confusion when Yukong had pulled back—or had it been awe? Caiyi’s wide-eyed stare and her halted question—the guardsmen had come, charging the place like they were errant fugitives.
The somber walk back to headquarters, her shifting glances, her ruddy cheeks. When all was said and done, they were lucky to still be employed; Caiyi’s skill had been praised despite the circumstances, but all Yukong could spare her mind to was how she was to grovel for breaking their promise of friendship.
Rejection would have looked glorious on Caiyi’s face too, Yukong had been most certain.
“Well… we got off with no more than a write up and a stern talking to, and Caiyi offered to buy me a drink for the trouble.”
They had marched in silence back to the dormitories, pausing by the flickering vending machine near the showers. Caiyi looked uncertain, shy of all things, but she hadn’t said a word, merely reaching out to offer Yukong a sip of her drink.
Hopeful might have been the word—hopeful was the flash in her eyes—but Yukong had been a coward then, tossing back a hearty gulp of earthy seltzer and wincing it down with her swelled longing. Petulant fear held her tongue; their time seemed bountiful, and such a false sense of laxity bolstered her abeyance.
Yukong never did get the words unstuck from the back of her teeth, and Guangyuan joined their ranks the following week.
“Your mother loved mung bean soda, you see… I never had the heart to tell her it wasn’t quite to my taste.”
Qingni pushed away from the table, looking affronted. “It’s been ages since then, right? You really ought to give it another try, mom.”
She was steadfast and determined, the round of her cheeks dimpling—a spitting image. Yukong raised her glass, snorting into the rim, chest restricting with advent. “Perhaps you’re right.”
