Chapter Text
The first world I remember is Caleb's eyes.
I must have been three or four. The mansion was so large that it felt unnerving. Corridors stretched like endless tunnels, with sconces glowing dimly even in daytime, stretching people's shadows long and thin, swaying against the dark wood walls. The click of mother's high heels on the marble floor was always hurried, echoing from one end to the other before vanishing behind closed doors. Father's study carried a stale mix of paper, ink, and cigar smoke. Light occasionally seeped from under its door, but it was no place for a child. Uncle Chen—the butler—and the maids spoke softly, with a cautious deference. They dressed me in soft wool socks to keep me warm, served me meticulously cut fruit to prevent choking, but their hands always withdrew quickly, their smiles painted on—proper, yet cold. The world was quiet, orderly, and icy.
Only Caleb's space was warm and bright.
His eyes were a muted blend of purple and orange—like sunset filtered through fine honey, warm and radiant. The color was unlike anyone else's I had seen. The adults said Young Master's eyes took after his father's. But Father's eyes always looked at me through layers of distance; Caleb's eyes saw me, just me.
"Come here." He was only a little bean of five himself, his voice still milky, yet he liked to mimic adult tones calling me. As if drawn by that light, I would stumble over and bury myself in his arms. He smelled of clean soap and a hint of sun-warmed grass. I would press my face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath, as if only then could I get enough air. The house was too big; sometimes the air felt thin enough to suffocate.
"I'm scared," I'd often say without context.
"Of what?" he'd ask, patting my back with his small hand—clumsy but earnest.
What was I scared of? The shadows that never fully dispersed at the corridor's end, the wind at night moaning through the trees outside my window, my mother's occasional scrutinizing glance that seemed to weigh my worth, the vast, pervasive emptiness within this beautiful house. I couldn't explain. I'd just tighten my arms around his neck.
"Then I'll stay with you," he'd always say, as if it were the simplest, most unquestionable thing in the world.
And so, staying with me became the great project of his childhood.
During the day, we were two tiny explorers in this silent palace. Our parents' business trips were holidays. The mansion and its extensive gardens temporarily became an ungoverned kingdom. Uncle Chen would only watch from a distance, urge us to "be careful not to fall," and then leave us be.
Caleb held my hand—his was a size larger, warm and dry—and took me to every corner. We named the old banyan tree in the garden "Grandpa Whiskers" for its dangling aerial roots. Behind the rockery, we found a small, hidden hollow just big enough for us both. We declared it "secret base," solemnly placed flat stones as seats, and even sneaked cookies meant for afternoon tea there for "picnics". Sunlight danced through the layered leaves on his face and hair, making his eyes translucent. He'd point at passing birds, telling me what they were—mostly making it up—or pick up oddly shaped stones or leaves, calling them treasures, and give them to me. I hoarded them all like jewels. They later gathered dust in some drawer, but back then, they were more precious than any expensive toy our parents brought back.
Running made us sweat, and roughhousing tired us out. When I was too tired to walk, I'd play spoiled and hold out my arms, looking at him. He'd pout at first, saying, "You're so heavy," but always ended up squatting down resignedly to let me climb onto his back. His back wasn't broad yet, even a bit bony, but lying there with my cheek against his slightly sweaty nape, listening to his somewhat hurried breath, I felt utterly secure. With each jolting step he took, the world shrank to the warmth of that small patch of skin by his neck.
We had our quarrels too. A child's friendship is as fragile as crystal, easily cracked by the slightest upset. Maybe over the last cookie with a cartoon print, which TV show to watch, or simply because he laughed at my clumsy fingers failing to tie my shoelaces. My eyes would immediately redden with what felt like monumental injustice. I'd turn away, declaring loudly, "I'm never talking to you again! I hate Caleb the most!'
He wouldn't rush to coax me. Usually, after a quiet moment—just when I was about to truly enact our "breakup"—I'd hear him shuffling about. Sometimes it was a beautifully wrapped piece of hard candy, appearing from nowhere, pressed into my hand. Sometimes a clumsily woven grass ring or animal placed on the stone beside me. More often, he'd sidle over, bump my shoulder lightly with his, eyes averted, mumbling, "…Alright, don't be mad. Forgive me?"
"What's your fault then?" I'd sniffle, pushing my luck.
"…Shouldn’t have called you clumsy," he'd force out, the tips of his ears turning red.
"And?"
"…Shouldn't have grabbed the remote."
"And?" By then I'd often forgotten why I was angry in the first place, but I enjoyed the ritual.
Finally, he'd turn his head. Those amber eyes looked at me, holding a mix of helplessness, indulgence, and a hint of something only I could recognize—something like shyness. Then he'd reach out, tug my sleeve, or simply hug me. The hug was tight, as if afraid I'd really run away. "That's all. You're the best, always. Don't be upset, okay?"
Then my tears would fall—not from hurt, but from some more overwhelming, inexpressible feeling. I'd bury my face in his shoulder, letting tears and snot smear his clothes, while my arms hugged him back just as tightly. Reconciliation always happened within that embrace, the silent pact reinforced once more. He would never truly abandon me; I would never truly leave him. This was a truth more trustworthy than any promise from our parents.
Nights were another trial. The huge room, the high ceiling, darkness crowding in from all sides. Our parents' bedroom was at the other end of the hallway, distant as another planet. Clutching my teddy bear, I'd stare at the patterns on the ceiling until they began to twist and writhe into terrifying shapes. My heart would pound, ears straining at every tiny sound—the wind, the creak of furniture adjusting, faint, unidentifiable noises from afar.
When fear peaked, I'd throw off the covers, jump out of bed barefoot. The cold floor stung my soles, but I paid no mind. My target was clear—Caleb's room.
His door was rarely locked. Like a startled creature, I'd slip inside, using the faint glow from the garden lights outside to make out the mound under his blankets. I'd sidle to the bedside and tug gently at his covers.
"…Hmm?" He'd always wake instantly, voice husky with sleep but without reproach. He'd scoot over and lift a corner of the quilt. I'd scramble up, burrow into the warmth of his bed, and press close.
"I'm scared," I'd repeat my daytime line, but night fears were more concrete, vaster.
"Of the dark, or the monsters?" he'd ask, turning to face me, his breath brushing my forehead.
"Both."
"Then I'll tell you a story to scare the monsters away." He'd launch into wild, rambling tales where the protagonists were often us, going on adventures, fighting bad guys, always returning victorious. His stories were chaotic, logic leaping, but his voice in the darkness was steady, a boat carrying me away from stormy seas. Sometimes he'd fall asleep mid-story, his voice fading into even breathing. I'd nudge him. "What happens next?"
He'd mumble, rally slightly, and improvise an ending. "…Then… then we went to sleep, and the monster went to sleep too."
It didn't fully dispel the fear. Our bodies lay close, arms against arms, legs touching. A child's skin is fine and slightly cool; pressed together, we greedily absorbed each other's warmth. Who started it—perhaps me, perhaps instinct—we'd end up embracing. His hold was tighter than in daylight, more like a solid fortress. My cheek against his chest, I could hear his steady heartbeat—thump, thump, thump—the most reliable drumbeat, drowning out all suspicious sounds outside.
And then came the kisses. No one taught us their meaning or boundaries. In our sparse, touch-deprived upbringing, hugging and kissing seemed the only natural ways to express closeness and comfort, like the mama bear kissing her cub goodnight in picture books. Our parents' goodnight kisses were ceremonial, brushing the forehead, brief and cool. What we needed was a more tangible, felt connection.
First it was the forehead, the cheek. Then we discovered lips were softer, their touch strangely reassuring. Like testing if a flower is real, you need your most sensitive skin to confirm.
"Caleb," I'd whisper in the dark.
"Hmm?"
"Kiss me."
He'd lower his head and gently touch his lips to mine. Soft, warm, slightly dry with sleep. I'd lift my head and kiss him back. Sometimes more than once, like a childish game of exchange—you once, me once—then we'd hug and giggle softly, content. The dark was no longer scary because it held the two of us; we became the only source of light and warmth within it. We curled into shapes that fit each other under the covers, toes touching, breaths mingling.
"Will we always be like this?" I'd ask drowsily.
"Of course." he'd answer without hesitation, tightening his arm.
"Pinky promise."
Even in the dark, we could find each other's little fingers, hook them, and shake twice. Ritual complete, pact sealed. Sleep would finally wash over us. In each other's scent and warmth, we sank into dreamless slumber. If we rolled apart in the night, we'd soon drift back unconsciously, seeking the familiar heat. As if we were born to nestle this way, like symbiotic plants whose roots had long since intertwined.
During illness, this dependence peaked. Frail as a child, I was prone to fevers when seasons changed. Lying in my bed in the vast house, the maids brought medicine and took my temperature on schedule, their movements precise, but their smells of disinfectant or kitchen grease made me feel worse. Mother would visit briefly, standing at the door in her crisp suit, asking "Feeling better?" her brow slightly furrowed as if handling an inefficient business matter. Father might not even know.
Only Caleb truly stayed. He'd bring a small stool to my bedside, spread his homework on his lap, writing while glancing at me now and then. Burning with fever, aching all over, my throat on fire, I'd whimper and cry. He'd put down his pen, climb onto the bed carefully so as not to crush me, and gather me, blankets and all, into his arms.
"It hurts…" I'd sob.
"I know," he'd say, pressing his forehead to mine to gauge the fever, then clumsily mimic the maids, wiping my face and neck with a damp cloth. "Take the medicine, sleep, and you'll get better," he'd soothe, his voice softer than usual.
"It's bitter…"
He'd magic a tiny piece of candy from his pocket, unwrap it, and slip it into my mouth. The sweetness spreading slightly eased the bitterness in my throat and the overall misery. Curled in his arms, clutching his shirt, I'd cry onto him. He never minded the mess or the nuisance, just held me, rocking gently, humming a tuneless lullaby he might have picked up from the maids. His embrace was a more effective comfort than any medicine. In his arms, even sickness became bearable because I knew I wasn't facing it alone.
We also talked about our parents, with a child's blunt, cruel innocence.
"Mom didn't come home for dinner again today," I’d say, pushing food around my plate.
"She's busy," He would reply, head bent over his rice, long lashes lowered.
"Dad too," I'd poke at my rice. "Why don't they eat with us? Uncle Chen says families eat together."
Caleb would pause, then look up. Those amber eyes regarded me seriously. "It's enough that we eat together."
I'd stare, then nod hard.
We created our own rituals and codes. Carved symbols only we knew in a garden corner; shared a secretly stashed, fizzy soda, sip by sip; gave the two always-proudly-strolling Persian cats ridiculous nicknames; huddled under a blanket on the same sofa during thunderstorms, pretending we were adventurers in a tent, the deafening thunder becoming a monster's roar while we were fearless warriors.
His presence was the only vibrant air I could breathe under that exquisite, icy glass dome. His smile, his hugs, my reflection in his eyes assured me I existed, I was loved—not as "the Xia family's daughter," but as myself. He showed me the gentle, fun side of the world, guiding me to secretly carve out a tiny, rule-free paradise just for us within the strict manor. Because of him, the longing for freedom in my heart never fully died; instead, it grew quietly. I began to vaguely sense that home shouldn't be this quiet and distant, and love shouldn't be this scarce and calculated. Caleb gave me love's first form: fervent, focused, unreserved.
And I, with all my childish, clumsy attachment, responded. I called him by his name, not "brother", because in my heart, we were side-by-side companions, accomplices, pillars of each other's world. I poured onto him all the physical closeness my parents failed to provide, that human nature craves—demanding hugs, piggyback rides, shared sleep, kisses. It was the instinct of a child finding the only spring in a desert, drinking desperately, holding on tight, afraid to let go lest this bit of sweetness vanish.
We were like two trees planted too close. In years no one tended us seriously, our branches grew wild, tangling early, inseparable. Our roots, in the cold soil deep below, gripped each other tight, drawing what meager warmth and nourishment we could from one another, struggling to grow toward the light. We didn't know then what sweetness and pain, entanglement and struggle, such intertwining would bring in the years to come. But back then, in those childhood days lit by his amber eyes, it was simply our only way of holding off the world's vast loneliness.