The tear slid down, unseen except by candlelight — and Xiao.
For a heartbeat, Yujin's mask slipped entirely.
No discipline, no Lan calm — only raw ache.
"You're here still, aren't you? Even if you fell," Xiao had whispered.
Yujin breathed, shuddered — then lowered his gaze.
Outside, dawn had not yet stirred.
Inside, wine cooled untouched; words hung heavy in the hush.
"I shouldn't have spoken so much," Yujin murmured.
"Lan teachings say: 'Words spoken past dusk ferment the heart.'"
"Then let it ferment," Xiao answered, voice barely above breath.
"Maybe something better will come of it."
The Pavilion walls, once so gaudy in red and gold, felt softer tonight — like a cage gentled by shadow.
"Xiao," Yujin began, then hesitated.
"That boy in the fire… his hair smelled of burnt silk. He tried to reach for someone — anyone. And all he found was my useless hand."
His throat tightened.
"I keep seeing it. Over and over."
"Then speak it out," Xiao urged, leaning closer, shoulder brushing his sleeve.
"Don't carry it alone."
Yujin swallowed.
"When I was younger, I thought failure would shame me most. But it's this: knowing I tried — and still wasn't enough."
His voice cracked again.
"Just like that bird. Tried. Fell. Crushed anyway."
For the first time, Xiao didn't smile, didn't tease.
"You keep calling yourself the fallen bird," he said quietly.
"But you forget something."
"What?" Yujin rasped.
"That you tried to fly at all."
Yujin blinked, chest tightening with a pain almost like gratitude.
But words failed him; only silence answered.
Outside, the night began to lift — faint pale lines behind shuttered windows.
"Stay," Xiao murmured. "At least till morning. Wine's gone cold anyway."
"I… shouldn't," Yujin whispered.
"Then don't should," Xiao countered, softer still.
They didn't speak again.
Two figures on either side of a low table, watching candlelight tremble.
The silence between them was not empty — it was full of breath, regret, and something that might become hope.