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Zhou Zishu feels like he is in a dream. He had to turn away from the scene in front of him, from a pathetic Zhao Jing struggling to stay alive, from his own disciple watching on with knowing eyes, from Wen Kexing—alive and well and human.
Zhou Zishu came to the conference to complete what Wen Kexing had started, to avenge Wen Kexing’s parents, to avenge the Ghost Valley Chief himself, to maybe figure something out for Zhang Chengling. And to then die and join his soulmate in the netherworld. Or maybe die trying to take revenge, maybe die by Zhao Jing’s sword, by the Scorpion King’s drug men—he didn’t even really care. The point was to do his best to fulfill Wen Kexing’s wish, and then die.
But then Wen Kexing had shown up, clad in light robes, his skin a healthy glow, his eyes gleaming, searching out Zhou Zishu’s, telling him silently that all will be well now. He is not dead, he has not died. Zhou Zishu had only been able to step to the side, watch on as Wen Kexing’s cunning revenge plot played out, watch on in wonder and hurt as he realizes just how many people were aware of the plan—excluding him.
But mostly, he had just watched Wen Kexing. Not really sure whether to trust his eyes, worried that his dulled senses were playing a trick on him, scared that what he was seeing was nothing but delirium. Was he already dying? Was this it?
He couldn’t say he’d be too upset about it. If this is how he dies—so be it.
But he couldn’t help but hope and pray to whichever god was willing to listen that it is not a dream, that it is not delirium, that he is not dying. Because that would mean that Wen Kexing is truly back, that he is alive and healthy and unscathed. It would mean that the Ghost Valley Chief Wen Kexing died just so he could be reborn as a human. Wen Kexing, the unhinged madman, leader of three thousand ghosts, murderer and declared enemy of all the so-called righteous sects, died just so he could be reborn again, as a human instead of a ghost, as a human filled with a normal amount of hatred and sorrow and past pain, a human who is first and foremost a soulmate and a disciple and a lover. He died so he could be reborn again, just for his Ah-Xu.
Zhou Zishu cannot find it in himself to fault Wen Kexing for not telling him about his plan. But the searing, pulsating pain in his torso reminds him of the consequences. He almost wishes it all were a dream. He wishes it were just his last moments in this world, made bearable by the imagined presence of his soulmate and the success of his revenge.
“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing calls him. Zhou Zishu is not sure whether it was his dulled hearing or how he was caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Wen Kexing walking up to him. “Here’s your sword.” Wen Kexing holds the sword out to him. “Let’s go home.”
Pain pulsates through Zhou Zishu’s unstable meridians at the happy tone of Wen Kexing’s voice. He turns towards Wen Kexing and looks at him—just looks at him. That is his soulmate. He looks so much lighter, so much brighter than he ever has, relieved of an enormous burden.
“Let’s go home first, alright?” Wen Kexing says and motions for Zhou Zishu to take his sword back. He is smiling, a tiny thing pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll tell you everything once we’re home.”
Zhou Zishu cannot command his arm to reach out and take the sword back. His body is still, frozen into place, like he is scared that any movement would make Wen Kexing disappear, fizzle out of existence, leave behind nothing but a hole that nobody can fill. But Wen Kexing doesn’t disappear, instead he reaches out for Zhou Zishu’s hand and presses the sword into his palm.
“By that time, if you want to hit or punish me, feel free,” Wen Kexing continues somewhere in the periphery of Zhou Zishu’s awareness. Out of pure instinct, his fingers close around the metal. He distantly registers that it feels cool despite having been held by Wen Kexing. It feels solid and heavy enough in Zhou Zishu’s hand to let him know that this is real, that Wen Kexing’s touch, his warmth, the grip of his hand is real.
Wen Kexing is truly standing in front of him, alive, happy, healthy, human; he looks so vibrant, so full of life—and Zhou Zishu is dying.
He lifts his hand to Wen Kexing’s face, tries to cradle it, curses his past self for creating those nails, for inserting them into his own flesh, for letting them dull his senses to the point where he can’t even caress his soulmate’s face the way he deserves. He pats Wen Kexing’s cheek, feels the skin, soft and smooth and so, so warm.
Welcome back, it says, and I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry.
He pats once again, feels the outline of the shell of Wen Kexing’s ear, the solid cheekbone, and he is so glad, he is so desperately relieved and—
Wen Kexing flinches under his touch.
Zhou Zishu goes completely still as Wen Kexing grabs his wrist to pull his hand away. For a moment there, it was Zhen Yan standing in front of him. That little boy, so human and so very vulnerable, having nobody to love him and to understand him and to keep him safe. That boy, being punished for merely existing, having learned to ask for punishment, to expect it at any given moment. That boy, thinking his senior is angry with him, that he deserves to be punished for not explaining before.
“Ah-Xu, this is the happiest moment of my life,” Wen Kexing hurries to say. He smiles, but it is tinged with insecurity. “Don’t hit me here.”
The pain Zhou Zishu feels bubbling up has nothing to do with his frail meridians and his failing organs, and it is only rivaled by the agony he felt when he thought Wen Kexing was dead. He is dying, his time is running out much quicker than before, why would he waste even a second of what he has left on being angry? Why would he waste any more time with punishing Wen Kexing?
His soulmate dying is the worst punishment Zhou Zishu could ever deal out anyway.
“Alright,” he says, because he needs to say something before more tears gather in his eyes and spill over. He takes his hand back and bumps his closed fist against where Wen Kexing’s heart beats, steady and alive. “I’ll remember this for later.”
“Shifu!” Zhang Chengling runs over to them. He sounds happy as well. “Shishu!”
“Our stupid boy,” Wen Kexing says and grins, overjoyed and relieved. “Let’s go. Let’s go home.”
He puts his arm around Zhou Zishu’s shoulder and Zhang Chengling wraps his arm around Zhou Zishu’s waist. Zhou Zishu lets it happen, lets them aid him, lets them direct him wherever they need to go.
Home. Just an hour ago, he was sure he didn’t have a home in this world anymore. Soon, he will not have one anymore.
I’m sorry.
He needs to tell Wen Kexing, needs to tell him before his time has run out. But this is not the place for it. Even if there were more allies present than Zhou Zishu had originally been aware of, nobody but Wen Kexing is supposed to hear what Zhou Zishu has to say. Nobody should be there to witness Wen Kexing’s devastation when he realizes that his soulmate is about to die. That he is indirectly responsible. That his plan was not perfect.
I’m so sorry.
Zhou Zishu knows what it feels like to lose his soulmate. He remembers the numbness followed by the pain, the disorientation, the feeling of being simultaneously too heavy and too light, floating away and sinking at the same time, the sheer agony—Wen Kexing deserves to live, happy and healthy and human.
They had wanted to live for each other. Wen Kexing had helped Zhou Zishu find back his will to live, had helped him see the beauty of being alive. For most of the recent years, both of them had been feared, admired, respected—but never understood completely, loved unconditionally. Finally, they had found that, had given it to each other. Wen Kexing wants to live. He deserves to live in peace, with a calm mind and a gentle heart.
Zhou Zishu is going to take that away. He is going to hurt him. He is going to do the worst thing he ever could to his soulmate. He is dying, and he won’t get a chance to be reborn.
I am so fucking sorry.