After they separated, Aston returned to his former life of luxury.
He went sailing, setting out with Cliff and the others from his family’s private dock. Sometimes it was for pleasure: cigars, champagne, and music aboard the sailboat, handsome men and beautiful women, sunshine and the sea. Sometimes they raced. He studied the conditions, devised strategies, and worked with the whole crew, rounding the buoys and crossing the finish line to win competitions and honors. On holidays, they sometimes sailed farther afield. Cliff often brought new friends along to introduce to him: the daughters of politicians, financiers, property developers, oil magnates… They all liked Aston, and some quickly became infatuated with him. Such things had always been easy for him to obtain. Everything except—
Aston genuinely couldn’t understand why, over the past few months, he’d looked forward, every single day, at every single moment, to going back to that middle-class neighborhood in Sunset on weekends. Why had he lived in that shabby rented house with its miserable little yard and two bedrooms?
They’d eaten simple meals they prepared themselves, or cheap beef dinners sold downstairs. They read newspapers, listened to the radio, played soccer or basketball. Utterly dull.
It was a relationship that had to be hidden, and the house needed looking after. That man had even taught him to change the bedsheets, mop the floors, and clean the cookware and dishes. The man always wanted to take care of everything himself, unwilling to inconvenience anyone merely because that person liked him. Yet he, Kingsley Aston, had actually told him… that he wanted to take care of him too.
Why had he done any of it? Aston thought coldly. His time shouldn’t have been wasted on such pointless things.
That man had even acquired some flower seeds and divided the yard into little plots to plant them. He said it was the first time he’d ever had a yard of his own and he wanted to grow flowers. Aston had changed his clothes, picked up a spade, and helped loosen and fertilize the soil. They’d tended the plants carefully every day, feeling some inexplicable sense of achievement, joy, and delight whenever a tiny sprout emerged.
Anyone could learn to grow flowers. What was there to be happy about?
Utterly dull.
Yes. It really was time to come to his senses.
All because of one man? Wasting time together? It brought him no connections, no resources, no power, wealth, honor, or respect. Only trouble.
That man had been right. He was back on the proper course now. He was the son of Alexander and Victoria Aston. His path had already been laid out, his future perfectly clear.
Over the past few months… he’d been under a spell.
Besides sailing, Aston spent time on yachts. He held parties and watched the sunset. The women’s long hair and skirts fluttered in the wind; it ought to have been beautiful. By day there were dolphins and seals. At night the sea was dark, the boat’s lights warm, and amid the black cold and utter silence he created his own little world of light, warmth, noise, and revelry, forcing himself to immerse himself in it.
Once the music changed to the tune he’d danced to with Qin Siyu. Aston’s smiling face instantly darkened into something so frightening that everyone around him fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. And the introduction had barely played one or two notes.
He entered countless competitions and events: tennis, rowing, even fencing.
With a fencing tournament approaching, he trained late every day, as if trying to numb himself. He even hired several retired masters to spar with him. Once one was exhausted, he’d cast a rather impolite glance at another and flick the tip of his sword. “Your turn.”
The sparring partners were all French, and his own French was low and pleasant to hear.
Speaking French was another standard part of his elite upbringing. Anyone who couldn’t speak it was considered insufficiently classical, aristocratic, or upper-class.
Aston reached the final of the 1933–1934 NCAA fencing championships, causing a sensation across campus.
Elio’s Notes: The first official NCAA national collegiate fencing championship was held on March 29, 1941, at Ohio State University, according to the NCAA’s historical timeline. The 1933–34 NCAA final depicted here is therefore a fictionalized event; the novel’s chronology is preserved. Source: https://ncaaorg2.sidearmsports.com/sports/2021/6/14/timeline-1940s.aspx
It was an utterly aristocratic sport. For years, the finals had been dominated by elite East Coast universities with French coaches. West Coast schools were marginalized.
And yet this year, someone from the West Coast had made the final!!!
Wu Xintong had another cupping mark on his forehead. “Sean! Are you going to watch the fencing final? It’s at Stanford this year! Because of Kingsley Aston, tickets are especially hard to get!”
“Mm. I’m going,” Qin Siyu said.
“Heh, I knew it!” Wu Xintong said. “I know you personally know Kingsley Aston, so, um… could you get me a ticket too?”
“We aren’t close.” This time he was telling the truth. “Sorry. I can’t get you a ticket.”
Tickets to a competition like this weren’t sold. You had to belong to the right circles to receive an invitation.
And now he really had no way of getting himself a ticket either.
“Oh,” Wu Xintong said, terribly disappointed. “Then…?”
“I’ll sneak in,” Qin Siyu replied.
Wu Xintong: “???”
“I borrowed an ID from a friend at Stanford,” Qin Siyu explained. “White people can’t tell Asian faces apart anyway. I’m planning to slip into the venue the afternoon before, find somewhere to hide, and wait until the next day.”
“Huh?” Wu Xintong was stunned. “You’re going that far?”
Qin Siyu rubbed the cupping mark on his forehead. “Don’t spread it around, all right?”
Qin Siyu really did sneak in the day before.
He crammed himself into a relatively large storage locker and left its door almost closed. Naturally, no one noticed him. After the building shut for the night, he slipped out and sat on the floor until morning.
Afraid of falling too deeply asleep, he only dozed against the wall for a little while. Most of the night he simply sat in the darkness, staring into space.
He had come to see him.
It had been over a month since they separated, and he hadn’t seen Aston even once. Fate had suddenly become extraordinarily considerate.
Once he’d even mustered the courage to climb the clock tower and look out over campus, but he still hadn’t spotted that person.
Yet he wanted to watch him in the fencing final.
Quietly, secretly, to look at him for a long while from within the crowd.
Staring up at the high ceiling of the vast, silent venue in the darkness, he thought, Kingsy, do you know? Because I wanted to see you, I sat in this gymnasium all night.
As the sun rose, he hid in the restroom again.
At a little past seven, voices gradually began to fill the gymnasium.
Staff cleaned the floor, laid out the fencing pistes, marked boundary lines and starting lines, brought in tables, chairs, score sheets, and timing equipment, and cordoned off areas where competitors could rest and prepare—
Everyone was busy.
When spectators began filing in, Qin Siyu slipped into the main venue too.
The competition was about to begin. A young woman was checking off the last few items, counting them one by one. “Non-slip powder… here. Towels… here. Alcohol… here. Bandages… here. And where’s the tool for testing sword tips…? Oh, here it is.”
Relieved, she made another circuit, then suddenly shouted, “Where’s the chalk? Where did the chalk go?!”
The fencing pistes had just been waxed. With so many staff walking around and moving things, some of the lines drawn earlier were already fading. It looked as if they’d need touching up several times during the competition.
She searched everywhere for chalk and couldn’t find a single stick. Whoever had drawn the lines earlier had apparently tossed it somewhere!
She yelled, “Who drew the lines just now? They’re almost gone! Where’s the chalk?! The chalk!”
But with people hurrying back and forth, nobody paid her any attention. Everyone had a job to do.
Qin Siyu checked his pocket watch. There were twenty minutes until the competition. He went over to help. “Just in case, why don’t I fetch a few sticks from the teaching building next door?”
“Oh, yes, yes, please!” The young woman made a quick decision and lunged toward the nearby table to hand him a volunteer card. “You’re a spectator, right? Fill in your name, hang this around your neck, and you won’t have to stand in line. You can come straight back inside!”
“All right,” Qin Siyu said.
Well, look at that, he thought as he filled it in. I’ve got an identity now. An undocumented intruder suddenly turned legitimate.
He dashed out of the venue.
When he returned to the gymnasium carrying chalk, no one had found the original supply. It was fortunate Qin Siyu had brought back a whole box from the teaching building.
The young woman quickly took a stick to retrace the boundary and starting lines.
Qin Siyu climbed the steps, stopped behind a pillar at the very top, and looked down.
The competition would begin at any moment.
The stands were packed.
Only two or three minutes remained.
Below, the staff began leaving the floor and the officials took their places. The referee confirmed something with the scorekeeper and line judges, probably that everything was ready, glanced at his wristwatch, then approached the fencing piste, adjusted his clothes, and raised his head.
The entire arena had fallen silent. Everyone was waiting for the official start.
The referee checked his watch several more times. During the final minute, he kept his eyes on the second hand, following its movement.
When the second hand reached zero, he raised one hand toward the position on his left. His voice echoed through the arena: “Harvard University! Mr. Blackwell!”
Then he turned toward the right. “University of—”
Huh? Only then did Qin Siyu realize that the first match was for third place.
The contest was actually fierce, but Qin Siyu wasn’t very interested.
After the bronze-medal bout came a fifteen-minute break.
Qin Siyu rose on tiptoe behind the pillar, peering down in hopes of spotting Aston preparing in the rest area, but he never saw him.
He… Qin Siyu wondered. What’s he doing? Can he win?
The spectators gradually returned to their seats, and the officials took up their positions in the middle again.
This time Qin Siyu noticed that the atmosphere, the audience’s enthusiasm, was completely different.
Everyone was sitting bolt upright, backs straight and necks stretched toward the arena, waiting for something.
Again the referee raised a hand toward the left. His voice rang out: “Yale University! Mr. Du Pont!”
Cheers came from the stands.
He raised his other hand toward the right. “University of California, Berkeley! Mr. Aston!”
The stands abruptly erupted into cheers, startling Qin Siyu!
Everyone in the last row in front of him stood up and pointed down toward the floor. A few even climbed onto their seats.
Two girls shouted, “It’s him! It’s him!”
The boys craned their necks too.
“…” Isn’t that a bit much? Qin Siyu thought. Berkeley’s a rival school! Is the whole audience from Berkeley? Is Kingsley Aston famous even at the neighboring university? Aren’t they bitter rivals?
More people climbed onto their seats, completely blocking Qin Siyu’s view.
He edged a step closer, searching for a gap.
But the row ahead of them was standing on its seats too. There was absolutely nowhere he could see through.
Still, he could imagine Aston for himself.
He could even remember every detail of Aston’s irises.
By the time the spectators settled back down, both men were already at their starting lines. Both were tall, with powerful legs, holding their masks at their sides.
The referee announced again, “Bout between Yale and Berkeley, Mr. Du Pont versus Mr. Aston.”
Too far away, Qin Siyu thought. I can’t see him clearly.
The handsome face, the golden hair. Beyond that, he couldn’t distinguish anything from here.
But, he wondered, what would count as seeing him clearly?
Seeing every tiny line on his lips?
The way those lines moved when he smiled, and how after a kiss his lips were always wet and deep red?
Would he still like kissing in the future?
For someone who loved kissing so much, how had he endured all this time?
After the introductions, both men raised their sabers and saluted the chief referee, then each other. Aston’s movements were always incomparably elegant, whatever he was doing: languid yet precise, somehow combining two contradictions. Qin Siyu realized that instinctively, completely, he watched only one of them and ignored the other. The rest of the spectators… seemed to be doing the same.
Once the salutes were over, they put on their masks. The match was about to begin.
The handsome face disappeared from view.
Following convention, the referee gave the commands in French. “En garde.”
“Prêts?”
He exchanged a glance with the timekeeper. “Allez!”
At the same instant the timekeeper started the stopwatch and both fencers sprang into action!
Qin Siyu had never watched fencing before. He only heard blades whistling and metal striking metal in rapid succession: advance, retreat, strike, dodge. Du Pont was initially the more aggressive, but when one thrust went wide the balance of attack and defense shifted. Aston seemed to be setting up a complicated combination, then apparently realized it wasn’t necessary. He stepped straight in and struck Du Pont on the left shoulder!
A roar of cheers burst from the arena!
How strange, Qin Siyu thought. Most of the spectators ought to be Stanford students. Why are they cheering for their rival?
On the second exchange, Aston attacked first, combining cuts and thrusts until Du Pont was forced backward. Aston cut from the left. Du Pont dodged to his left and parried. Aston immediately recovered his blade and thrust from the right. Du Pont could only leap backward with all his strength. Aston abruptly changed to a thrust at his mask. Du Pont instinctively tried to throw his head back, but he’d already lost his footing. He stumbled and fell flat on his back!
“Halt!” the referee shouted.
The action stopped.
Aston showed no particular reaction. He carried his saber back to his position.
When they resumed, Aston feinted a thrust, circled his blade around Du Pont’s parry, and scored his second point.
Du Pont was visibly rattled. Aston pushed the score to six–nil, applying crushing pressure throughout, utterly dominating the contest.
The final used seven touches: the first fencer to land seven won the bout. Aston took the first bout seven to one against Du Pont.
Before the second bout, Du Pont adjusted his approach. Apparently determined not to suffer a humiliating defeat, he repeatedly launched surprise attacks before Aston had even finished preparing!
Boos rose from the stands.
At the same time, the referee began showing a bias toward Yale.
The East Coast was fencing’s traditional stronghold. Berkeley was still a relative outsider.
After his adjustments, Du Pont improved considerably. At four–four, twice in succession both men appeared to strike one another at almost the same instant!
Aston was certain he’d landed first. Yet on both occasions, the referee awarded the touch to his opponent.
Six–four.
Du Pont was about to win the second bout.
Qin Siyu grew anxious too.
In a competition like this, the referee could decide everything, couldn’t he?
Most spectators were there for the spectacle and couldn’t follow the subtleties. All they saw after the score reached six–four was Aston suddenly lower his sword, remove his mask, and walk off the piste, his gait as composed and elegant as ever, neither hurried nor slow.
Qin Siyu: “???”
Aston’s hair was slightly damp with sweat and disheveled, making him look even more handsome. He approached the referee and looked down at him from his full height.
The referee instinctively took a step backward. “…?”
“Mr. Aston. Return to your position!”
Aston lowered his eyes to the man and, astonishingly, smiled. His gaze was appraising, analytical, and as intimidating as ever. “Sir, I believe that was my attack.”
The referee: “…”
Aston’s mouth curved in a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. “Please watch more carefully next time.”
The referee opened his mouth several times, but in the end said nothing.
Aston stepped away, pulled on his mask, and returned to the piste.
Qin Siyu knew: Kingsy… Kingsley… No. I should call him Mr. Aston now. He’s angry.
The match resumed. Aston was noticeably more conservative now. He no longer committed to exchanges where he might land a hit but be struck himself.
He concentrated solely on the best opportunities to attack.
More intricate techniques, and more agile evasions.
Under the judging rules, the defending fencer had no priority. It was a risky choice, yet Aston made it decisively.
And as if determined to leave the referee no room to argue, he added extra force to every strike. When his blade struck his opponent, even the spectators could see the tip bend slightly. Twice, Aston’s saber came down on Du Pont’s mask with such force that it rang out with a loud thunk, snapping his opponent’s head sideways!
It was impossible for the referee to claim those blows hadn’t landed!
Each time he scored, Aston walked back with perfect indifference.
Every point he won sent applause rolling through the crowd.
Five–six.
Six–six!
Seven–six.
He’d won!
Nobody had expected that year’s NCAA fencing champion to come from California.
In the eyes of East Coast elites, after all, California was practically barbarian territory.
Cheers exploded through the arena. Aston still wore his mask, but tipped his head toward the referee.
The referee: “…”
During the post-match salute, Aston was perfunctory to the point of disrespect, as if he regarded neither his opponent nor the referee as worthy of consideration. He merely gave his saber an idle flick.
He looked up toward the highest seats. Qin Siyu hurriedly ducked behind his pillar.
The arena filled with thunderous applause and cheers. Berkeley students who’d come to watch began chanting his name in rhythm, shouting, “Berkeley, No. 1!”
Leaning against the pillar amid the prolonged frenzy, Qin Siyu thought, That’s right. Keep shining like this. Don’t get entangled with another man.
A surging river shouldn’t suddenly change its course. A broad, level road shouldn’t suddenly develop obstacles.
Aston shone so brightly.
Just then Qin Siyu remembered Aston once predicting that after a period of exuberance the economy might decline again. He’d been right. When the rally ended, economic indices fell repeatedly from August through November.
Aston had truly been born to be admired.
Afraid of running into anyone he knew, Qin Siyu cautiously peered out at the arena. Aston was indeed looking elsewhere, talking with his teammates, his expression sunny and his smile open.
“…” Qin Siyu withdrew his gaze and strode out of the gymnasium.
He’d seen him. He could remember this match for the rest of his life. The whole night had been worth it.
There was an after-party following the awards ceremony, and both teams were invited.
As Qin Siyu came out, perhaps because he still wore the volunteer card around his neck, a student from Harvard’s fencing team stopped him. “Wait a moment!”
Qin Siyu turned around. “?”
The student tossed him a jacket. “Could you take this to the changing room for me? My locker is number eleven. There’s a chair in front of it. Just leave it there. Thanks!”
Qin Siyu caught the jacket. “All right.”
He didn’t know where the changing room was, so he asked directions before making his way in.
Locker eleven was in an obvious spot, and there really was a chair in front of it. Qin Siyu folded the jacket and placed it there. Then, for no reason he could explain, he wandered through the changing room, looking at the lockers.
Kingsy always chose one in a corner.
Qin Siyu walked toward the corner. Only one locker there was locked. It felt as if it had to be Aston’s.
He stood there a while, held the locker door, and bent closer. At the gap, he sniffed twice and thought he caught a faint trace of the light fragrance Aston wore.
But maybe it was only his imagination.
He shouldn’t be able to smell perfume through a locker.
Qin Siyu examined the combination lock.
Kingsy always used the same numbers, and this mechanical lock—
Only the first dial had been spun to a random digit. The second and third still showed the numbers he habitually used.
Then it must be his locker.
Aston couldn’t be bothered with such things, and had plenty of money. He generally wouldn’t take the trouble to spin all three dials.
Qin Siyu stood there a long while, his fingers twitching faintly.
He wanted to touch that lock, to place the tip of his own index finger on the bottom two numbers. Kingsy must have touched them just moments ago.
They would all still be receiving their awards and celebrating in the arena. Qin Siyu could hear the cheers coming from there.
But he didn’t move.
He wasn’t allowed to do that.
He didn’t know how much time passed. It felt both very long and very short. Suddenly Qin Siyu felt a sharp sting at the back of his neck.
Like an insect bite, with an odd chill.
At the same moment, a voice behind him sounded both familiar and strange. “What are you doing here?”
The voice was familiar. The tone was not.
“…” Qin Siyu turned and met a pair of ice-blue eyes.
When those eyes had looked at him before, they had always been full of tenderness. Now they were icy and indifferent.
What had touched the back of his neck was the saber in Aston’s hand.
As Qin Siyu turned, Aston drew the tip back a fraction, then placed it against his Adam’s apple.
Pain shot through Qin Siyu’s throat, making breathing difficult.
His Adam’s apple bobbed reflexively, sliding upward. Then he himself let it settle back against the point of the blade.
Aston stared at him. “Tell me. What are you trying to do?”
Qin Siyu only lowered his eyes to the blade.
The saber was long and slender, its blade smooth.
He remained silent.
When Qin Siyu refused to answer, Aston moved the tip of his blade. He slipped it beneath the flesh of Qin Siyu’s chin and lifted, forcing him to raise his face and look at him.
Qin Siyu lifted his eyes, caught Aston’s gaze, and held it.
Even now, Aston had to admit it: what beautiful eyes.
Their outer corners tilted slightly upward, their lids fanned out, their black pupils shone clear and bright, and the whites were spotless. A tiny tear mole lay beneath the left eye.
His nose was straight, and his lips still soft, vivid, and moist. But Aston wouldn’t be tempted again.
The point of the saber slid down his neck, touching the skin, until it reached the hollow between his collarbones. Aston applied a little pressure.
The hollow at Qin Siyu’s throat was deep, his skin pale. The tip pressed gently into the flesh, making a small indentation.
Qin Siyu felt a prickling pain and a faint itch. Restlessness rose from somewhere deep inside him and spread all the way to his fingers and toes.
With the blade against his throat hollow, he breathed carefully, slowly, and deeply.
Aston held his gaze and pressed harder.
The blade sank deeper. Qin Siyu’s back was against the lockers, with the saber point digging into the skin at the front of his neck. The pressure kept increasing, as if Aston truly meant to pierce him.
The spot had already reddened.
In truth, Qin Siyu almost wished Aston would run him straight through the throat.
Or better than a sword, he wished Aston would put on gloves, press a thumb against his throat, and let him die there in the palm of his hand.
His neck was growing uncomfortable.
It hurt.
The pain wasn’t just from the pressure on the outside. Something seemed lodged inside his throat as well, something he couldn’t swallow.
How strange. To protect competitors, fencing sabers had blunt, rounded tips that couldn’t ordinarily injure him. Yet it still hurt so badly. Perhaps the pain didn’t come from the blade at all, but from within.
Cheers erupted again in the arena. Here, they faced each other in silence.
Qin Siyu instinctively tipped his neck back and drew slow, deep breaths.
Aston was still pressing harder, his eyes cold. Qin Siyu had no idea how far he intended to go. He closed his eyes, emptied his thoughts, and accepted what Aston was doing to him.
Almost as though offering himself in sacrifice.
The tip suddenly stopped sinking deeper.
A few seconds later, Qin Siyu felt the pressure against his neck vanish.
He waited a little longer. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes abruptly and found nobody standing in front of him.
Aston had gone.