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The screen is cracked, flickering, and blurry with grime and dust. He tries to wipe it clean, but only smears it worse. Behind the cloudy glass, San-shu stares at him, desperate and wide-eyed, gesturing frantically.
"I'm trying," Wu Xie says to him, "I'm trying to find you, where are you—" He coughs and blood spatters across the screen, drips down over San-shu's face, and Wu Xie can't tell if it's just on the screen or leaked through to cover his uncle, too. "Sorry," Wu Xie gasps, scrubbing at the glass with his sleeve—but it doesn't help, there's too much blood, thick and sticky. He can barely make out San-shu's face through it, can only hear static. But his uncle is opening his mouth, is going to tell him, give him the clue he needs—
San-shu's lips part; they shape a word—Wu Xie's name? A cry for help?—but when he speaks, it's the boom of thunder, deafening.
The screen shatters under Wu Xie's hands in the lightning's flash, and shards of glass pierce his eyes, blinding him, blood and fluids running hot down his cheeks. He cries out, trying to shout for his uncle, but he can't hear his own voice over the thunder. He clutches at the glass shards, trying to pull them free, to piece back together the screen. But they've struck deep, stabbing through his skull, and every move he tries to make drives them deeper.
He's trapped, stuck fast; he twists against the bonds holding him, tying him down, smothering him. He can hardly breathe, sucking in too-shallow gasps of air. He rolls over, wrenches himself free—then he's tumbling over, falling.
Hitting the floor jars Wu Xie more awake, but he's disoriented, his head throbbing. His ears are ringing, thunder crashing in them and he can't tell if it's just the memory of the nightmare or if he's still half-dreaming or if there's a storm outside.
Under the thunder he hears a voice, feels a thumping vibration through the floor under his knees, his hands—and then a light flips on, floods the room, spearing through his eyes as sharply as the glass shards in his dream. He claps his hands over them, curls around himself. The only reason he doesn't scream is because his voice is too hoarse; all that comes out is a croak. That gasp sets him coughing again, every spasm of his chest like another blade through his skull.
At least the burning in his throat isn't the bitter metal of blood—that tang he's getting too used to, and it's almost like relief now to taste bile instead as he heaves around the coughing, empties his stomach.
His arms are shaking, can't support him—but he doesn't fall when they fold, and he only gradually realizes that's because there's another arm around him, strong and sturdy, bracing him. There's a hand resting on the back of his neck, pressing steadily, and that warmth against his clammy skin is grounding, gives him something else to focus on beyond the pounding in his head and the acid in his throat.
It takes whatever paltry strength he's got to stop the coughing, swallow back the last bile from his roiling stomach. He sags, and is caught, before he hits the cold hard floor. He's trembling a little, shivers he can't control, but the warmth of those arms around him, the familiar soft solidity cushioning him, helps to slow them.
The ringing in his ears is finally fading, enough for him to make out syllables, though it takes him a little longer to process them into words—into Pangzi's voice, barely pitched above a whisper, saying, "—mean it, Tianzhen, if you don't answer me I'm taking you to the fucking hospital right now—"
"M'okay," Wu Xie mumbles with effort. Swallows back another surge of sickness and tries again, "No hospital. Just—just a headache."
Pangzi pauses. Then says, still only whispering, "Like fucking hell, just a—"
"'ve had worse hangovers," Wu Xie says, which maybe isn't quite accurate, but then it's the middle of the night and he's too exhausted now to try to remember anything clearly. At any rate, this isn't the first time Pangzi's held him heaving over a bucket. Though usually what came before was more fun.
"Not a fucking hangover, you had one fucking beer tonight," Pangzi says, sounding angry even in the muttered undertone. He shoves the wastebasket away with his foot and sits back on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed. Wu Xie's practically sitting in his lap, slumped against his chest, but it's too hard to move. Breathing even shallowly hurts his lungs and his head both, but it's not like he can stop.
Pangzi's hand is still on the back of his neck, calloused fingers digging into the pressure point, taking the stabbing misery down to merely painful throbbing.
There's a rhythm to that agony, a unique cadence to the pulsing colors behind his eyelids. Wu Xie concentrates on it, trying to memorize the pattern, to match it to the recorded thunder. The effort steadies him, if not as securely as Pangzi's arms around him, as the reassurance of Pangzi's own breathing, the regular rise and fall where Wu Xie's head rests against his shoulder.
Pangzi's not saying anything—though not snoring either; still awake. After a bit Wu Xie collects himself enough to lift his head, to try to sit up. "I'm okay," he says.
Pangzi grunts, without loosening his arms, or lifting his hand from the back of Wu Xie's neck.
"Seriously," Wu Xie says, taking the effort to make a complete sentence, "I'm feeling better, you don't have to—"
"—Tianzhen," Pangzi says softly, "please shut the fuck up."
Wu Xie closes his mouth. Exhales and lets his shoulders loosen, so his head falls back to Pangzi's shoulder. It's warm through Pangzi's t-shirt, soothing against the ache of his skull. He's almost stopped shivering, and the relaxation of that tension leaves him wrung out, limp as a soggy dishcloth.
"—'Don't have to'," Pangzi says at last, very quiet in the dark. "You know—you know, if I could just give you one of my lungs—if I could give you both of them—I would. Like that, I would. You know that."
"...I know," Wu Xie says, and there's a moment that he's selfishly, viciously, guiltily grateful that there is no way to make such an exchange; that Pangzi knows no such technique, for all the weirdness and mysticism they've run into over the years.
"So," Pangzi says, "if there is something, anything—if you could just let me..."
He trails off. They sit there for a little while in silence—gloriously empty, peaceful silence, now that the ringing in his ears is subsiding. Wu Xie manages to stave off a cough, breathing lightly enough to not increase the pounding in his head. Pangzi's breathing is louder under his ear, but that's okay; that sound doesn't hurt.
Finally Wu Xie clears his throat, asks, "There wasn't a storm tonight, was there?"
"A storm?"
"I thought... I heard thunder. In my dream."
"No thunder," Pangzi says. "Clear skies." He shifts a little on the floor, stretching out one leg without pushing Wu Xie off them. Wu Xie thinks he should try to get up but Pangzi still has one arm wrapped tight around him, and also his muscles feel like water; he's not sure he remembers how to move them.
"I dreamed about San-shu," Wu Xie says. "He was trying to tell me something, but his voice was thunder, and I woke up before I could understand it."
Pangzi lets that rest for a bit, then says, "It's not the first time, is it. That you've heard thunder and gotten one of these migraines."
"Not...quite this bad, before," Wu Xie admits.
Pangzi mutters something unintelligible. His hand has moved up to cradle the back of Wu Xie's head, raking his fingers over his scalp like he's trying to plow up the headache. It feels nice, a distraction from the pain.
In the dark like this, eyes closed so he can't see even the shadows of the room, it's easier to say. Abstract, like it's not about him, just idle speculation. "I might be losing my mind."
Pangzi exhales, and Wu Xie with his head pressed to his shoulder can hear the slight unsteady rattle of it. But when Pangzi speaks, though he's still keeping his voice low, it's as sure and boldly unashamed as he ever is. "You've been a lunatic since the day I met you. Kind of late to change it up now—you know what they say about old dogs." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe I should be looking for that veterinarian."
Wu Xie snorts in spite of himself. It scrapes his throat, makes him cough, only a couple of times before he swallows it back.
"Think you can get some more sleep now?" Pangzi asks him.
"Sure," Wu Xie says. He's not going to—as exhausted as his body is, his mind isn't slowing but speeding up, trying to recall the thunder patterns, compare them. Besides, now that the lurid pulsations behind his eyelids are fading, they're being replaced by the image of San-shu's blood-drenched face.
But it's still the middle of the night, and Pangzi needs his beauty sleep. And once he's out Wu Xie can get up, get out the laptop and check...
'"Sure'," Pangzi repeats, a grumbling growl, like a grouchy bear. "So convincing." He shifts again, then just scoops Wu Xie up and pushes to his feet. Not to drop him on the bed, though; instead Pangzi flops down himself on his back, still holding Wu Xie close, like a supersized toddler clutching some lanky-limbed stuffed toy.
"Dammit, Pangzi," Wu Xie complains, smacking at the arm latched around him, keeping him from rolling off to the empty side of the bed, "you don't—"
Pangzi makes a sharp sound—not just scolding but actually mad, enough that Wu Xie shuts his mouth. Pangzi doesn't let go, but with his other arm he reaches out, gropes at the nightstand. When Pangzi finds the phone and turns it on, the light from the little screen is bright enough that Wu Xie winces, squeezes shut his eyes again as he hides his face against Pangzi's shoulder.
It's Wu Xie's phone, but Pangzi knows his passcode, of course. Pangzi mumbles to himself, his fingers tapping softly on the phone screen. His other hand is back on Wu Xie's head, resuming that soothing pressure. Wu Xie hears, faintly, muffled where Pangzi's got the phone to his ear, the electronic ringing of a call going through, then getting picked up. Then Pangzi says, his voice still carefully low, "He won't sleep—you talk to him."
Over the phone's speaker, Xiaoge says, "Wu Xie."
"Fuck," Wu Xie says, "you didn't—it's, what, three a.m.—"
"Two here," Xiaoge says.
"Yeah, so you should hurry up and go to sleep," Pangzi says, "and not keep Xiaoge up—he's got important shit to do, after all."
"Me—?!" Wu Xie protests, "I'm not the one who—"
"You see," Pangzi says, "you see what I'm dealing with, Xiaoge?"
"I see," Xiaoge says, an even softer-than-usual version of his most dryly amused tone.
"At least I can get sympathy from somewhere," Pangzi grumbles. "And it's so humid tonight, too—how hot is it there, Xiaoge? And are you somewhere the AC actually works? Or is Er-shu being stingy with the lodging? Are there good mattresses, at least? He should have more respect for the backs that actually do his hard labor..."
Pangzi keeps talking, quietly but only rarely pausing long enough for anyone else to get a word in. He's holding the phone by his shoulder, between their ears, so if Wu Xie doesn't speak himself, he can hear Xiaoge's occasional murmurs of response in those brief gaps.
Wu Xie keeps his eyes closed, but the throbbing through his skull has diminished enough that the pattern of it is harder to keep track of. And it's difficult to summon the memorized thunder over the familiar counterpoint of Pangzi's chatter, and when he has to be listening for Xiaoge. Even the urgent image of San-shu's face is blurring, dissolving in his mind into placid nothingness.
Tomorrow, he'll try to retrieve it, try to piece together those hazy visions to see if there's more to them than obsession and delusion. Tomorrow he can figure out what his next step should be, of the few he has left to take.
Tonight, in the shelter of his friends, Wu Xie sleeps.