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I. Wang Pangzi
On Wu Erbai’s orders, they’re to stop for the night at a guesthouse that's half a day’s drive away from the sea.
Wang Pangzi cheers as Wu Xie reads out Er Jing’s text message, even lifting his hands off the steering wheel long enough to pump his fists. After almost two weeks of sleeping bags and tents, and the cold, hard, and very damp ground in the Nanhai-wang’s underground palace, the prospect of a soft bed and a hot shower is welcome.
Even more welcome is the news that Wu Erbai will be treating them all to dinner that night.
“I knew your Er-shu was a gentleman. Haven’t I always said so, Tianzhen?”
“That was not what you said when he insisted on taking over our expedition,” Wu Xie snorts, reaching over from the passenger’s seat to punch him in the arm. “And keep your hands on the wheel!”
It’s clear that the manager of the guesthouse had not been expecting a party as large as theirs outside of the tourist season, even though Wu Erbai (or, more likely, Er Jing) had undoubtedly called ahead. The poor man looks flustered as he comes out to the lobby to greet them, and there aren’t enough staff to help them all with their luggage and equipment. On the bright side, they have the whole guesthouse to themselves, and the manager promises to have a hot pot dinner ready for them at six.
Wang Pangzi digs his elbow into Wu Xie’s side. “You’re still treating me to hot pot when we get home.”
“Did I promise I’ll treat you to hot pot?” Wu Xie laughs, dodging out of the way. His eyelids crinkle. It’s a good look on him, Wang Pangzi decides; certainly an improvement over the hollow-eyed and haunted expression that he’s been wearing since they emerged from the tomb.
(Privately, Wang Pangzi blames that female figure which Wu Xie had brought out. Something like that will put a damper on even the hardiest of souls.)
“What’s this? Didn’t your parents teach you to keep your word? And here I thought you were a better man,” Wang Pangzi retorts, lunging forward to sling arm around Wu Xie’s neck. He decides to be as obnoxious about it as possible, because that’s just how their friendship is. Wu Xie is their brain, the one who charts their course, who figures out their next step when it feels like they’re out of steps. Zhang Qiling is their limbs, the one who sees their course to the end when things are beyond his and Wu Xie’s physical capabilities, and certainly the one who saves them when they need saving (which, he reflects ruefully, happens more often than not).
As for him, he’s their belly. Not the most glamourous role, and perhaps the one that gets overlooked the most, but he prides himself on being the one who keeps them together and keeps them going. He’s the one who looks out for them, smooths out the tension, breaks the ice, and, where necessary, pulls them back before they go too far.
Unfortunately, none of their rapport has made them any better at having meaningful conversations with words.
So that’s why Wang Pangzi will continue to badger Wu Xie about another hot pot meal when they get home. It’s why he will spend half of dinner piling food into Wu Xie’s bowl, and allowing Wu Xie to do the same to his. If he sings even louder than he usually does at karaoke, playing off Wu Xie’s cues; if he takes great pleasure in beating Wu Xie at billiards and even greater pleasure at rubbing his victory in – well, that’s why, too. If what Wu Xie needs now is to laugh, then he, Pang-ye, will make him laugh.
He goes to bed that night confident that he and Wu Xie will be just fine.
=-=-=
II. Zhang Qiling
Zhang Qiling has been in tombs so dark that he couldn’t see his hands when he held them up in front of his face. He knows that he had been blindfolded on a few occasions over the long years, although his memory of these incidents is patchy.
He doesn’t think he has ever been physically blinded before.
All the same, the Zhang family had trained him well. He no longer recalls much of his childhood, but his body remembers the lessons it had been taught. Deep in the Nanhai-wang's underground palace, he had felt his other senses sharpen reflexively as his sight started to go: his hearing primed to pick up even the softest sounds; his sense of smell hyper-focused to mark and identify the people and objects around him; even his sense of touch, heightened to pick up any changes in the air currents on his skin.
He would have been fine, he thinks, even if Wu Xie had not been there to lead them.
“What are you looking at?” Wu Xie asks, looking up from the billiard table where he has just potted a shot. Wu Xie’s expression is curious as he saunters over to join him, handing the billiard cue to Liu Sang along the way, and this, Zhang Qiling thinks, is why he’s glad that the blindness had been temporary, even if he would have been fine.
“Looking at you,” he says, knowing that it will make Wu Xie blush. He is rewarded by a faint pink that tinges the tips of Wu Xie’s ears, just visible beneath the warm yellow light of the dining hall. He feels corners of his lips twitch as he leans against the pillar behind him, determined to look his fill.
“Stop laughing at me,” Wu Xie grumbles, but leans against the pillar too. Their shoulders touch. This close, he can smell the shampoo which Wu Xie had used in his shower before dinner, cheap and artificially floral, the kind provided by the guesthouse. He can smell the same shampoo on himself too, and the thought that he and Wu Xie smell alike pleases him. He lets his right arm fall to his side. The knuckles of his right hand brush against Wu Xie’s left, and his smirks when Wu Xie take his hand.
“I like looking at you,” he tells Wu Xie with as much seriousness as he can muster, before leaning over to press a quick kiss on Wu Xie’s cheek.
“Xiaoge, don’t! People will see…” Wu Xie sputters as he ducks his head. His face is properly red now, but his fingers squeeze Zhang Qiling’s hand just a little tighter.
“No one is paying attention,” Zhang Qiling reassures him, because it is true. Their corner is angled just out of sight from most of the party, and any whispers they trade are lost beneath the clamour of raucous toasts and enthusiastic singing. For a moment, he entertains the thought of keeping Wu Xie there for the whole night while he visually catalogues the things which make Wu Xie his Wu Xie: the way Wu Xie’s eyes turn a warm brown when Wu Xie turns to look at him, or the way laugh lines appear when he smiles. There’s the way Wu Xie’s hair falls softly to frame his face, the way Wu Xie's long lashes cast smudgy shadows on his cheekbones when he lowers his eyes, and even the way Wu Xie is still blushing furiously as he tilts his chin up, angling for a proper kiss.
Zhang Qiling makes it a point to stay close to Wu Xie for the rest of the dinner.
The guesthouse is small enough that most of them have to double up. Wu Erbai had arranged for him to room with Pangzi, Wu Xie with Liu Sang – a combination calculated to minimise any potential bloodshed, he guesses. He’s brushing his teeth when he hears Pangzi excuse himself from the room, something about needing fresh air after all that baijiu at dinner. When he emerges from the bathroom, he blinks at the sight of Wu Xie, sprawled on the bed which he had claimed for himself earlier.
“Pangzi said he’ll switch with me,” Wu Xie says, patting the pillow beside his head, and Zhang Qiling finds himself smiling again.
It’s a tight squeeze with two grown men on a single bed, but they make do. The short hairs on Wu Xie’s nape are prickly against his bicep, and he’ll have to shift them both at some point in the night lest Wu Xie wakes up in the morning with a crick in his neck and a temper to match. For now, however, Zhang Qiling contents himself with holding Wu Xie close, and just breathes.
=-=-=
III. Wu Xie
He’s punching the paper solider, when the soldier’s face becomes Pangzi’s.
Wu Xie tries to stop, but his hands seem to have acquired a life of their own, and his fists continue to rain blows. Pangzi’s lip has split, and his teeth are bloody. Wu Xie feels horror and nausea rise up in him in equal measure. At the same time, a corner of his mind rejoices at every blow, every punch fuelled by the dark satisfaction that, when all this is over, only he will know the secret language within the thunder claps.
A final punch sends Pangzi flying across the chamber. Pangzi’s lips are moving, but the roar of the blood in his ears drowns out any sound that Pangzi makes. He thinks Pangzi may be yelling his name. Wu Xie, Pangzi’s lips shape. Wu Xie.
Wu Xie’s hands reach for the shovel.
“Wu Xie!”
Wu Xie jerks awake. Someone is holding him, pinning his arms to his sides, trapping him, and he struggles mindlessly, fighting to break free, until he remembers where he is. Abruptly, his body sags.
There’s a rustle behind him, and the bedside lamp clicks on. Zhang Qiling’s eyes are dark and worried as they peer at him.
“Nightmare…” Wu Xie breathes shakily.
“Hn.”
Bile rises in his throat, and he shoves himself out of Zhang Qiling’s embrace. He makes it to the bathroom just in time before he loses most, if not all, of his dinner. It takes almost the entire bottle of mouthwash, placed beside the sink with compliments of the guesthouse, before he convinces himself that the stench of iron at the back of his nose is just his imagination.
“Water,” he croaks when he finally steps out of the bathroom.
Zhang Qiling nods. He goes to his luggage, pulling out one of his hoodies, which he holds out to Wu Xie.
Suddenly, Wu Xie realises that his sleep-shirt is soaked through with sweat. His fingers shake as he accepts the proffered garment. “Thank you, Xiaoge.”
The hoodie is almost as warm as its owner.
He mentions that there’s a vending machine just outside the entrance of the dining hall, and they make their way there together. Zhang Qiling does not comment on the way Wu Xie leans into him with every step they take, which Wu Xie finds himself grateful for. The bottle of mineral water, when it clatters out of the machine, is blissfully cool against his fevered skin. They take it back to their room, where Wu Xie manages to gulp half of it before he gets distracted by the sight of his split and bruised knuckles.
“Xiaoge?” he murmurs before he even realises it. His voice is jarring in the quiet room, and he can hear the way his words shakes. “Do you ever think… what if you hadn’t stopped me?”
There’s a soft kiss to his forehead, a tightening of the arm around his shoulders.
Zhang Qiling sits with him until daybreak.