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Zhou Zishu’s chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, his shoulders free from tension, body melting into the mattress. His hair, downy and feather-like, flutters with each breath, eyes fluttering as he chases something in his sleep.

Wen Kexing can’t help but brush Zhou Zishu’s hair out of his eyes, touch soft as he smooths the strands from the sleeping man’s forehead, scared that even such a slight movement will interrupt this man’s hard-won peace.

He has known, of course, that his Ah-Xu is cursed, that he is not the crotchety old man he looks to be, but still: Wen Kexing feels his heart overflow at the sight of the young man asleep before him, so still, sleeping so soundly. Ah-Xu feels safe, here. Safe enough to sleep like this, safe enough that he doesn’t flinch from the touch, safe enough that he did not rouse at Wen Kexing’s entrance, nor at Wen Kexing’s perching on the side of Zhou Zishu’s bed.

Wen Kexing is tired. So, so tired. His legs, his shoulders, his gut, his head, there’s no part of his body that doesn’t ache or burn. His clothes smell of burning, of blood, of rot. His hair where it falls across his shoulders is greasy from engine oil, from the roasting slick of charred bodies, from his own lack of time to bathe. His scalp itches from it, his skin prickles with the knowledge of all that’s splattered over him in just the last two hours.

He just wants to sit here, in this protected little cavern; broom closet-turned bedchamber, and lay the back of his hand against his Ah-Xu’s cheek and feel his warmth, feel his heart, absorb anything Zhou Zishu is willing to give him, even if all he’s willing to give is angry words and a bucket thrown at his head.

Wen Kexing muffles his groan into his sleeve as he stands, glancing down to make sure he’s not roused his sleeping cleaner. Zhou Zishu feels safe here. He cannot wake to find his charming and innocuous Lao Wen bloodied and half-charred. His calves protest his weight, light as he is, but he forces himself to step away from the bed, half-dragging himself up wooden stair by wooden stair. Zhou Zishu feels safe here. Wen Kexing cannot ruin that. 

-

The first thing Zhou Zishu does when he wakes is sigh a great big sigh. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know the curse has yet to be broken; even in his half-wakeful state he can feel the knots in the muscles of his back, the creak of his gritty wrists, the strange pull of gravity granted by the rearrangement of his muscle mass. He stretches, moaning as joints snap and crack, relishing the half-second of satisfaction that comes before the world settles and he knows the pains and the aches and the bruises left are here to stay.

He allows himself a second sigh before he wipes the sleep from his eyes, watching the wooden roof of his little enclave come into as much focus as his newly-cataract scourged eyes allow, then shifts his legs off of the bed into his awaiting fluffy slippers (a welcome gift from his beautiful little Chengling). 

Zhou Zishu has optimised this space now, pulling on the daily outfit and thick, warm outer robe he’s left prepared the night previous before shuffling out into the main living area. 

“Oi, XiaoZi!” Ye Baiyi says from his place in his fireplace, crackling to haughty attention as he notices Zhou Zishu is awake. “You’re up late! Do you want me to die?”

“Once again,” Zhou Zishu says, not deviating his course towards the sink. “I do have a name.”

“Would you throw me logs faster if I used it? I think not.”

“You’re probably right,” Zhou Zishu says, turning on the taps to splash water over his face. “I’m also an old man, I at least deserve not to be called ‘boy’.”

“Pah, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t give Ye Baiyi the courtesy of a reply to that one, taking his washcloth and scrubbing over his face and neck, body shuddering at the cold water after being so cosily wrapped up through the night.  

“I’m dying ,” Ye Baiyi wails, his impatience more than clear in his voice.

“You’re immortal.”

“I’m not that immortal.”

“I’m coming,” Zhou Zishu says in response. He listens as the immortal in the fireplace begins to make coughing groans, gurgling and spluttering and he rolls his eyes. As much as he respects his senior, he cannot face another day of sarcastic enjoiners without some basic hygiene first. 

The spluttering becomes a pained gasp, as if Ye Baiyi is taking his last breaths, and Zhou Zishu allows the immortal to milk the moment for a while longer as he carefully pats his face dry with a teatowel.

“Ah, Shifu!” There’s a flurry of movement and then a thud as Zhou Zishu turns to watch Chengling vault over the landing of the staircase, avoiding the stairs to make a direct path over to the fireplace, hands already outstretched for the pile of wood.

Zhou Zishu watches the log land and a very, very small Immortal clamber onto it like a lifeline at sea. 

“Shifu,” Chengling says, turning on the old man, hurt and panic colouring his voice, “He nearly died!”

“He was fine,” Zhou Zishu says in his bored drawl. “And I’m not your Shifu, I’m the cleaner.”

Chengling’s mouth opens but his hands slap over his own lips a half-second later, his eyes widening, proof of his near-insolence, even if the words haven’t left his lips. 

“Something to say?”

Chengling shakes his head violently, hands still clamped over his mouth as if it might betray him. 

“No, go on. I want to hear.”

Chengling shakes his head again, though this time less sure. Too trusting for his own good, Chengling loosens the fingers over his face, whispering a small “It’s just…”

“It’s just?” Zhou Zishu encourages.

“Shifu, you’re not… very good at cleaning.”

Chengling must see the fire that lights in Zhou Zishu’s eyes because he drops to his knees immediately in supplication, apology spilling from his lips. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” 

“You-” he starts, but his attention is diverted by the rare sight of Wen Kexing, descending the stairs in a pristine pink robe. Both Zhou Zishu and Chengling freeze, as if to move would break this mirage. Wen Kexing’s hair is, for once, neatly done up, his posture regal, looking every inch the Chief of the ghostly castle he is rumoured to be, even as he picks up three logs and sets them in the fireplace.

“Peu! I don’t need your stinking logs!” Ye Baiyi immediately scoffs, scuttling away from them as if he might catch something from coming into contact with the wood that’s touched this man’s hands.

Zhou Zishu winces, expecting a loud and immediate bickering contest, but Wen Kexing simply ignores the biting remark and heads into the kitchen area, reaching for a pot and the eggs.

Still frozen, the master-student pair watch as Wen Kexing, with all the grace of a prince, sets to preparing breakfast, barely shifting the air with his movements, even as Chengling scuttles to his feet in order to help set the table. 

“Well, Chengling, what do we say to some bacon this morning?” Wen Kexing asks, and even his voice seems to have gone through some sort of renovation, not the grating and lecherous layabout Zhou Zishu knows but some soft, sweet man with more than a touch of song to his tone.

“Yes, Chief! Please! Shifu always burns the bacon.” 

“Ah, ah, don’t be rude,” Wen Kexing chides, before turning an absolutely disarming, sun-soft smile in Zhou Zishu’s direction. “Ah-Xu, bacon?”

Zhou Zishu finds himself unable to speak, gaping at the transformation. He’s sure he looks an absolute picture like this, his wrinkled face the picture of disbelief. Is it some sort of curse? Has Wen Kexing come under one of the Scorpion King’s spells? 

“Looks like your Shifu’s content to catch flies this morning!” Wen Kexing laughs, and Chengling joins his Chief in it.

That sort of needling is more familiar, which lets Zhou Zishu close his mouth with a frown. Perhaps he’s just woken up on the wrong - right - side of the bed for once? 

When Wen Kexing drifts over to the fire with his bacon-loaded pan, Ye Baiyi flares up like a hissing cat, but even that’s not enough to knock the serene expression from Wen Kexing’s face.

“Cook them properly you old monster, and I’ll feed you the scraps.”

“I don’t want your stinky scraps!”

“Cook them perfectly and I’ll give you the thickest slice of bacon.”

“And the rinds,” Ye Baiyi demands.

“The rinds and the eggshells,” Wen Kexing confirms.

Ye Baiyi mulls that over, but it’s clearly already a done deal, even before he lowers his heat and allows Wen Kexing to plant the pan over the lick of flame. 

“Shifu,” Chengling says from Zhou Zishu’s elbow, pulling out a chair at the table for him, “Since the Chief is cooking today…” 

“Ah I see, you don’t want me interfering, huh, brat!”

Chengling just smiles at that, patting the seat. “Not at all, Shifu! You deserve the time off!” 

Zhou Zishu narrows his eyes at the child, but it’s not as if he actually enjoys cleaning this bachelor’s castle and cooking this brat meals, so he takes the seat proffered to him, allowing Chengling to push his chair under the table once he’s seated. 

“Ah-Xu, tea?” Wen Kexing asks, already putting a pot of water on a warm spot in the fireplace, “Or would you like Chengling to go to the market for juice? Milk?”

“I’ll go!” Chengling says immediately, clearly pleased to be given a mission and already full of energy despite the earlieness in the day. 

“Tea is fine,” Zhou Zishu says, putting a hand out as if to calm Chengling’s energy. “Perhaps we can visit the market together later, Chengling, and we can buy fruit for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Shifu!” Chengling says immediately. 

“I’m not your Shifu,” Zhou Zishu says half-heartedly, “Unless you have dreams of becoming the Chief’s next chambermaid.”

“I would gladly serve Chief Wen as his chambermaid!” Chengling says without hesitation, with even a touch of pride to his voice. “And anyway, I know Shifu’s secret.”

“Oh really?” Wen Kexing says, regaining some of that delight at the thought of an imminent teasing. 

“Shifu is actually very good at making drugs and medicines. He even fixed a couple of yours, Chief Wen.”

Zhou Zishu lets out a slight breath. “Is that all? You could learn these tricks from any quack in the area.”

Chengling frowns, taking that (as with everything) very seriously. “Shifu, you shouldn’t put yourself down like this! I wish - no I will learn from you.”

Zhou Zishu just reaches out to pat Chengling’s head. “I’m just an old man, little Chengling, who’ll die sooner rather than later. Best you keep your options open.”

Chengling goes to say more, but Wen Kexing puts the frying pan down in the centre of the table, now laden with fried eggs and perfectly crispy bacon. “No more dower talk, not when we’re at breakfast please!” Wen Kexing says, scooping the greasy breakfast onto each plate, Chengling practically salivating as he waits to dig in.

“Chengling the tea, please?” 

The boy is off his chair like a rocket, barely remembering to grab a tea towel to wrap around the warmed handle before carefully carrying it back to the table, first serving Zhou Zishu before Lao Wen’s and then his own cup. 

Wen Kexing lifts his cup in a toast. “To a hearty breakfast with friends,” he says, and the three cheers to it. 

It’s so domestic, Zhou Zishu cannot help but melt into his chair, absorbing the laughter, the taunts, the brightness of this table. Happy and full and warm, it’s easy to forget the crick in his back and the stiffness of his fingers.

Wen Kexing catches him staring, and when he smiles he looks like he truly means it: like he’s never been happier to share a table with anyone before.

Zhou Zishu has never felt like this before, and he’s startled by the realisation that it might just be love.

-

“I have something for you,” Wen Kexing says after breakfast has been devoured and the kitchen has been cleaned, Chengling sent to do his daily round of the neighbourhood.

Zhou Zishu frowns. “A new bucket?” 

Wen Kexing chuckles but doesn’t give a reply, turning instead to the doorway. He spins it away from the seaside market town, then beckons Zhou Zishu over towards him. “It’s better than a bucket.”

“Really? Because the other one doesn’t hold water anymore. It’s useless.”

“That might be because you threw it at my head.”

“Well why is your head so hard?”

Wen Kexing opens his mouth to reply, but stops himself, a self-satisfied smile replacing it. “I’ll buy you a new bucket; a hundred new buckets, this afternoon.”

“What am I supposed to do with a hundred buckets?” Zhou Zishu mutters, but Wen Kexing is ignoring him now as he opens the heavy front door. 

Zhou Zishu isn’t expecting the light, so it takes him a moment to re-adjust as a hand comes to his lower back and ushers him outside; out into a - a… Zhou Zishu’s mouth opens. A large plain of green, the sky impossibly wide and blue above them.

Zhou Zishu has lived in the city for years now, cramped in shadows and high walls, has forgotten what it feels like to stretch his arms out without fear of hitting something made by man. 

“Nothing like your Shiji manor I assume.”

“No,” Zhou Zishu admits, “But…” he takes a deep breath of clean, fresh air. There’s a slight bite to it, carrying that mountainous chill despite the warmth of the sun. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re welcome here any time. Nothing medicinal grows here, not that I know of anyway, but if you needed a place to just… be.”

Zhou Zishu glances at Wen Kexing. There’s something indescribable about his usually hyper-expressive face; like he’s here, but not really, like he’s looking at something, or perhaps some time else. Zhou Zishu hates that expression. He’ll never admit it out loud, but this clay-like indifference, this disassociation from the reality around him makes him miss the needling lech Lao Wen usually is. 

Zhou Zishu takes a few more steps into the field of flowers, then decides fuck it and just runs, as fast as his feet can take him through the knee-high long grass and the rainbow of wildflowers. He skitters down an embankment, feeling a grin split his face. There’s no use for propriety here so he laughs nonsensical sounds of joy at the sky, turning in wild circles to confirm there’s nothing beyond the horizon for miles.

It only takes a moment until he hears Wen Kexing join him in the rapture, following behind him with his own clear glee, that clay mask already cracking. As they run together it becomes a competition - Zhou Zishu’s pride flaring as Wen Kexing begins to outpace him - but he won’t allow it, jostling the lankier man as if to push him over, and sparking a brief sparring match that ends with the pair of them rolling turn after turn through the grass, one pinning the other, escaping, pinning, escaping, laughing all the while.

Finally Zhou Zishu’s lungs can’t take it; he falls to his back on the grass, panting and still laughing, knowing their robes are stained with grass that Chengling will have to work to scrub out. The sun is warm on his face; blinding in the midday. He holds his hand up to the sky to block it out, inspecting his fingers as the rays filter through them.

Right , he remembers. Knotted, liver-spotted, old. “What’s an old man like me doing rolling in the grass?” he sighs. 

Wen Kexing turns his head, surprise and just a little disappointment in the crinkle of his eyes before it’s replaced with his implacably charming smile. “Ah-Xu, there you go again.”

“What?”

“You’re in the prime of your life! If you’re not allowed to play and have fun, what have the rest of us got to live for?”

Zhou Zishu snorts. “I think Lao Wen plays around enough for the rest of us.”

“Agh, there he is, the mean Shifu! Don’t you know all work and no play makes monsters out of men?”

“Remind me which of us is the Chief of the ghosts?”

Wen Kexing just gives him a sly smile at that. “But if your Lao Wen worked more, Ah-Xu would never see me! Just think how lonely you would be!”

“With Ye Baiyi and Chengling running around crying their lungs out? I’d hardly notice your absence.”

Wen Kexing makes a face of pure heart-break, hands coming to cover his chest like he’s been stabbed. “Ah-Xu!”

Zhou Zishu raises his eyebrows. “Lao Wen!”

Wen Kexing’s lip trembles in heightened sadness. “Then there’s nothing to it. I’ll drown that old monster and slash the brat’s throat so you have nobody to think about but me.”

“Thank the Gods,” Zhou Zishu says. “I was beginning to think you were nice . What a tragedy that might have been.”

There’s a flicker of real hurt but Wen Kexing covers it easily with a particularly gnarly grin, rolling over so he’s once again pinning Zhou Zishu to the ground, hands settling over Zhou Zishu’s and slowly, slowly bringing them up over his head with a gentle but inescapable grip. 

“Aa, Ah-Xu, haven’t you heard the rumours? Chief Wen is a heart-eater.” Lao Wen punctuates his words by dipping his head lower, grazing his teeth over Zhou Zishu’s earlobe. “He is definitely. Not. Nice .” He lingers there for a moment, and Zhou Zishu can’t see the smile but knows what it looks like, teeth and confidence and heat-

And then the weight is gone - Wen Kexing stood up and stretching out like he’s not just made Zhou Zishu’s heart beat far faster than their run had. Zhou Zishu rolls over and in on himself, needing a second to regain himself. He feels the soil against his nose, hears the miniscule trampede of ants and insects as they cut paths through the foliage, smells the distinct smell of fresh-cut grass and the sweet aroma of mixed flowers, and he tries to calm himself the fuck down.

So definitely at least lust, then, he thinks at his traitorous body. A silly crush on a handsome boy. That’s fine. That’s normal . That’s easily overcome. 

Zhou Zishu expels all of the air from his lungs like doing so might clean his body of the thoughts and then he makes his way to his feet again, swatting away Wen Kexing’s outstretched offer of a hand. Nobody could blame him for reacting like that to what was clearly a purposeful flirtation.

Zhou Zishu clears his throat then straightens his back. “Better make sure Chengling’s doing his chores,” he says, making his way back towards the door and not waiting to see if Wen Kexing follows. 

-

Zhou Zishu startles awake as the front door slams, hand going to a sword he no longer keeps at his side on instinct. As his heart hammers, he cautiously separates the thin curtain protecting his bed from the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness to catch a glimpse of the attacker.

With each lumbering footstep comes the heavy drip of some thick liquid splattering to the wooden floor; blood, he knows, from experience and from the metallic tang to the air. 

Then he sees him, even in the pitch-darkness of the night: Wen Kexing, cherry blossom pink robe from this morning torn through the middle, wet and dark with oozing blood. Wen Kexing is hunched as he stumbles across the room, one hand clenched across his middle, the other hanging limp by his side.

Zhou Zishu is by his side in a flash, going to wrap an arm around Wen Kexing’s waist - only to be pushed, violently, away. Not expecting the attack, Zhou Zishu falls to the ground, heart still pounding as adrenaline continues to urge him to fight or flee.

Wen Kexing’s eyes are wide and wild; there’s an animalistic set to his snarl as he backs away from Zhou Zishu, shoulders tensing in a defensive posture, anticipating another attack. Wen Kexing growls, teeth gritted with clear pain but fuelled by the desire to live, to escape, and to do so by any means possible. 

They lock eyes for a long moment, staring, breathing, Wen Kexing ragged and panting, Zhou Zishu quick and panicked, before Zhou Zishu remembers himself. Remembers times where he’s been lowered to this sort of fear, to nights where he’s killed, and killed, and barely made it through the night without his brain giving way to the blissful emptiness of hunter or hunted , and Zhou Zishu remembers what Wen Kexing is looking at: a frail old man. Prey, an easy kill. Zhou Zishu remembers now that the fall should have hurt his thinly padded backside, jarred his spine, and with a jolt he feels that pain. Feels the bruises forming across his skin.

But he is not, and will never be scared of Wen Kexing. Zhou Zishu evens out his breathing and then slowly brings himself upright, the speed half for Wen Kexing’s sake and half because he can go no faster in his cursed form.

He brushes himself down and breaks eye contact while he does so, radiating ease. He will not position himself as a threat, but he’s sure as not going to be slammed to the floor again like an elderly antelope getting its neck snapped by a lion.

When he’s done, he takes a half step closer to Wen Kexing, making sure not to move directly towards him, or to move as if he’s cornering the man. Wen Kexing’s hackles still rise, but that’s to be expected. 

“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu says, softly, as he takes another step. “Lao Wen, do you know me?”

Wen Kexing takes quick steps back, tripping over his own feet as he hits the dining table, clutching at it for support.

“Lao Wen, it’s me,” Zhou Zishu says, this time choosing not to step closer, not when the man has nowhere else to go but to pounce forward. “Your Ah-Xu, remember.”

Wen Kexing’s mouth ghosts the name, but fear still reigns triumphant.

“Ah-Xu,” Zhou Zishu repeats. 

“Ah-Xu…” this time, the name spills from Wen Kexing’s lips in a whisper, voice clearly hoarse from screaming, or yelling, or whatever has needed to be done this night. The second time Wen Kexing says the name, his knees give out, like the fear and adrenaline have simply evaporated from his body. 

Zhou Zishu rushes forward to grab him, but with so little muscle of his own, he mostly ends up acting as a cushion to prevent Wen Kexing’s fall. Zhou Zishu hardly feels it though, wrapping one arm around Wen Kexing’s back and looping the man’s clearly broken other arm over his neck so he can leverage him up. 

He half drags the stumbling Wen Kexing towards the stairs as he calls over his shoulder. “Ye Baiyi, heat the bath please?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing,” the Immortal grumbles, though his scoffed “brat” is clearly less pointed than usual, whether mollified at having been caught eavesdropping or genuinely worried about the man despite their frequent fights. 

The journey up the staircase is arduous on Zhou Zishu’s arthritic knees on the best of days, but lugging a semi-conscious man almost half his height up them is like being faced with everest. 

His lungs protest the climb, as does his hair where it’s being used as a hand-hold by the barely lucid Wen Kexing, but by the time they make it up the stairs, Zhou Zishu is more concerned about just how much blood is now seeping into the wooden floorboards. 

He kicks the bathroom door open and deposits Wen Kexing on the toilet, taking only a brief moment to re-organise his abused muscles back into shape before turning on the lamp and beginning to draw a bath. Wen Kexing is sitting with his head slumped back, which cannot be a good thing, and he no longer seems to have enough energy to hold a hand to his wound to prevent blood-loss, which is definitely not a good thing.

His face is pale; more pale than usual, with a sickly grey tone to it. Zhou Zishu tries hard not to think about the blood that’s already pooling on the bathroom floor. Even the scent of it is starting to overwhelm him; the sight of it, stark red against the white tile will likely push him over the edge, and he can hardly chuck his guts out in the toilet if Wen Kexing is sitting on it. 

“Right,” he says with confidence he absolutely does not feel once he’s sure the bathwater is running at the right temperature, “Let’s look at what you’ve dragged in.”

He goes to unfasten the sash tying Wen Kexing’s robes closed, but his wrist is caught in an immediate, bone-crushingly tight grasp. “Lao Wen,” he says, not flinching at the pain. “Let me clean you up.”

When the hand doesn’t drop, Zhou Zishu sighs. “I’m an old man,” he says, putting on his most jovial, grandfatherly tone. “What could I possibly want from a boy like you?” Wen Kexing holds himself still, closed expression now frozen in both fear and disgust, teeth clenched so hard Zhou Zishu can see the strain in the muscles of his face.

“Okay,” Zhou Zishu says, trying to keep his voice light. “How about I give you a hand with your wound, and then you can do the rest yourself.”

The vice-like grip on his wrist decreases, incrementally, until Zhou Zishu is able to free himself and begin working on the sash again, knobbled fingers too weak to immediately release the tight knots Wen Kexing has tied. He blindly gropes for a towel from the side-table once the robe begins to part, pressing at the wound with one hand as his other frees Wen Kexing’s arms from the robe, leaving him in his undershirt and trousers, hoping the steam coming off of the bath will make the room warm enough to prevent the other man catching a chill.

It is, thankfully, what seems to be a sword-slash: clean-cut, surface-level, gashing skin and some muscle but not puncturing. Zhou Zishu would sigh a sigh of relief, but that would mean taking in more air than he’s willing to breathe, so he allows it to be an internal prayer of gratitude. “Lao Wen, can you hold the towel?” he asks, raising Wen Kexing’s non-broken arm to the towel and placing it there. “I’ll be back, all right, I’m just getting some supplies.” 

Wen Kexing gives a tired, silent nod, and Zhou Zishu half-leaps down the stairs to the living area, collecting herbs, drugs he’s been working on as well as the basket of first-aid items he’s seen Chengling dip into when kids with grazed knees have knocked at their door.

He bounds up the stairs again, knees all but forgotten, and is thankful to find that Wen Kexing hasn’t attempted to move in the interim. 

He dips his hands in the bathwater to clean them of the already-drying blood clinging to his skin, before dipping into the basket to root around for equipment. Sewing kit, tweezers, bandages, obviously this injury is not Wen Kexing’s first. 

No mortar and pestle - and his body already protests against another trip down the stairs. He picks at his bundles of herbs, chewing them up with two of his pre-made pills to create a spit poultice as he checks that the wound has stopped spouting blood. Unendingly thankful that it has, he threads the needle he suspects is a repurposed fish-hook and, after wiping the worst of the blood from the wound, begins to stitch Wen Kexing’s stomach back together.

Once he’s got the skin as neat as he’ll get it, he spits the bitter poultice into his hand, dabbing it over the stitching. He hopes the sabre that has cut Wen Kexing hadn’t been dipped in poison, but this should hopefully stave off infection and prevent further blood-loss. 

Once he’s done he takes a moment to regard his handiwork, thankful for once for the amount of similar cuts he’s fixed the same way on his own body. At least on someone else, he can see where the needle’s going; he’d hate to leave the same sorts of ugly, jagged scars he has on his body from botched sewing jobs in bathrooms far less clean than this one. 

Zhou Zishu takes a clean towel, dips it into the bathwater, wrings it out and then goes about the rest of Wen Kexing’s no-longer protesting body, both cleaning him and checking for further wounds. He’s imperious about it, checking every fleck of mud and freckle for signs of needle-small puncture wounds, not wanting to lose the man because he’s missed some assassin’s toxin. His knees are beyond dead from kneeling this long on the cold tile, but he has little care for his own comfort, and after a laborious half hour, the man is clean and all-clear. 

“Wanna lie down,” Wen Kexing says, the first words from his mouth since saying Zhou Zishu’s name downstairs.

“How about,” Zhou Zishu says, “You sit here on the floor, and I wash your hair in the bath for you?”

“Tired.”

“I know, but you’ve got… you’ll feel better once you’re clean.”

Wen Kexing is clearly too tired to argue, so once Zhou Zishu has created a bed of towels on the floor, Lao Wen allows himself to be sat with his back to it, leaning heavily against the porcelain. Zhou Zishu grunts as he stands, then perches on the lip of the bathtub, gathering Wen Kexing’s hair and draping it into the bath, the water by this point both tepid and grubby. 

Zhou Zishu runs his hands through the jet black hair, dislodging flora and fauna he tries desperately hard not to think about, easing tangles with his fingertips from where they’ve been clumped together with dry blood and other unspeakable substances. Zhou Zishu wouldn’t even give Chengling the task of cleaning out the tub come morning; he’s fairly sure what’s sunk to the bottom would give the child nightmares for life. 

Once he’s got the worst out, he drains the bathwater, taking the opportunity to work shampoo through Wen Kexing’s thick hair, lathering his way through the tips to the roots. Once he reaches Wen Kexing’s scalp, he’s more delicate, allowing his fingers to massage the man’s head, careful to make sure no suds escape to trickle down across Wen Kexing’s face or into his eyes.

For the first time that evening, Wen Kexing’s scowl begins to loosen, angry eyebrows and hollow eyes unscrewing into an almost-calm. His breathing begins to synchronise with Zhou Zishu’s, and so he takes his time, not wanting to break this meditative moment. 

“Good, good,” Zhuo Zishu calms as he works, rubbing small, slow circles into the man’s scalp, nails scraping just slightly but not enough to cause any more pain, and he watches how, in real time, the tension leaves Wen Kexing, all inner-energy now focused on his internal healing. 

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing sighs; dreamily, now, like they’ve met in a field of flowers. 

“Yes?”

“Lao Wen is going to break the curse,” Wen Kexing says to himself. “I promise.”

Zhuo Zishu’s hands still in Wen Kexing’s hair, but he forces himself to keep moving. Was Wen Kexing out tonight getting himself bruised and beaten on account of him? Surely not - he’s the Chief of the ghosts, he has better things to be doing, better armies to be fighting than to be looking for the cure to some old housekeeper’s silly curse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zhuo Zishu says, feeling the weight form across his tongue as the threat of even mentioning the curse enters his brain, preventing him from speaking freely.

“I will,” Wen Kexing says again. “That little Scorpion will pay.”

Zhuo Zishu keeps himself carefully calm, then begins to run the taps again, taking an enamel jug from the side so he can gather water and begin washing out the shampoo. “I’m just an old housekeeper,” Zhuo Zishu says. “Chief Wen has far more important things to fight for.”

Wen Kexing shakes his head, a minute action with the last of his strength, and then lets his cheek fall to rest on Zhuo Zishu’s thigh, a small smile on his lips. “Nothing’s more important than Ah-Xu.”

Zhou Zishu holds his breath, but then Wen Kexing’s head lolls, asleep or unconscious. Zhou Zishu finishes washing the shampoo out and hastens to wring most of the moisture out before he carries Wen Kexing from the bathroom to his bed, carefully dressing him in a sleeping robe to protect the wound before tucking him into bed.

He still looks pale, wrought, deep dark bags heavy under his eyes, but he is no longer distressed. Relief washes through Zhou Zishu, scrubbing clean the last of the adrenaline keeping him upright. 

He’ll just close his eyes for a moment, he thinks as he settles beside Wen Kexing. Just a moment to get his strength back. Then he’ll raise Chengling to take watch, and he’ll go scrub the bath, and make a broth; nourishing. It’ll be just what they both need after the night they’ve had.

He’ll just close his eyes for a moment.

-

There is an ear-piercing screech from somewhere in the house, and Zhou Zishu’s stomach falls clean through his body as he jolts upright. This isn’t his room, there’s something clinging to him, it’s far too bright, there’s the smell of blood and herbs, and someone - Chengling - is making a lot of sound outside - 

Zhou Zishu looks down, sees his hand is interwoven with another’s - Wen Kexing - who is still out like a light despite the racket. Healer instincts take over first - he pries his hand out of the grasp and checks the wound: not infected as far as he can tell, then the pulse: steady, if weak, and then in a moment of selfishness, he brings a hand to Wen Kexing’s face, smoothing his cheek. Safe. 

Zhou Zishu huffs a sigh and lifts his legs off the side of Wen Kexing’s too-tall bed, having to hop a little for his old-man-legs to reach the floor. 

He doesn’t have to go far to find his child; Chengling is huddled just to the right of Wen Kexing’s door, curled in on himself as if he might fade into the wallpaper. Chengling startles as the door opens, then the fear is immediately replaced by confusion as he notes who has left the bedroom. 

“Shifu?” Chengling tries to glance behind him, but Zhou Zishu closes the door before the child can see inside. “Where’s Chief Wen?”

“Sleeping. Did you go into the bathroom?”

Chengling nods, then apparently puts two and two together. “Shifu, is Chief Wen-”

“He’ll be fine. Here,” he says, holding out his arm so Chengling can pull himself up. “I need you to go to the market, get a chicken, and some vegetables.”

Chengling nods, back still hugging the wall as if even a centimetre between himself and the bathroom might protect him from his memory of it. “But Shifu…”

“What?”

“I need to… use the bathroom.”

Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes. “I’m sure you can find a bush on your way to the market.”

Chengling makes a scandalised face, but then seems to remember the alternative so nods with a dour expression. “Are you going to clean it now?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Please be done soon.”

Zhou Zishu cuffs him lightly on the back of the head for the insolence, then urges him on, watching the boy skitter down the hallway and towards the stairs, dancing to avoid the bloody footprints on the floor.

Zhou Zishu sighs. He hates cleaning, but Chengling has a point; there’s only one bathroom in the house, and the sooner the blood’s gone, the sooner Zhou Zishu can throw up in the toilet.

He allows himself his daily second sigh of the morning, then he rolls his sleeves up and goes to clean a hellscape of a bathtub.

-

Zhou Zishu touches Wen Kexing after that. Not the delicate or fleeting touch of a careful lover, but the heavy-handed manhandling of a man who has nothing to hide.

When Wen Kexing wakes up with a low, pained whine, Zhou Zishu wastes no time trying to be gentle: he bodily drags the man upright, places a scalding hot bowl of soup in his hands and strips the sheets underneath him.

“How long ago did you last wash these?” Zhou Zishu says, nose wrinkling at the grubby now-grey sheets. 

“You’re my housekeeper,” Wen Kexing says, voice thin.

“And you’re a full-grown adult.” Zhou Zishu bundles the sheets up in a waiting basket then goes to grab at Wen Kexing’s nightgown, the man turning away as swiftly as he can without spilling soup into his lap. 

“I need to check the stitches.”

“I’m fine.”

“You were cut to shreds.”

“I’m fine .”

“Your arm is broken, let me help you into clean clothes.”

Wen Kexing puts the bowl down on the bedside table then pointedly locks eyes with Zhou Zishu as he brings his hand to his broken arm and channels qi into it. It clearly takes longer than Wen Kexing had anticipated, and sweat beads at his temple with the exertion of energy he doesn’t have, falling back into his pile of pillows once he’s done. 

“See? I’m fine.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?”

“You’re a meddling old man, do you know that?”

“I have self-awareness,” Zhou Zishu says. “Eat your damned soup.”

“I don’t like chicken soup.”

Zhou Zishu does not give Wen Kexing the satisfaction of an aggravated sigh. “I will force feed it to you myself if I have to.”

“Ah-Xu, so lively in the morning,” Wen Kexing replies, voice dripping with over-exaggerated flirtatiousness. 

“Do not try me this morning, Lao Wen. I just cleaned a bathtub full of whatever it was you eviscerated last night, and I’m not in the mood to be teased.”

Wen Kexing’s mouth pulls into a taught, thin line, eyes dropping to his soup, cowed. He pushes about the chicken and egg bits in the soup, then slowly brings the wooden spoon to his mouth. His expression goes green, and it’s clearly a mammoth task for him to swallow. “You made this?” Wen Kexing asks.

“What, you need more salt?”

“No, no, it’s got enough salt,” Wen Kexing says in a hurry. “It’s…” the man considers the soup for a moment before taking another sip, clearly forcing himself to eat more. “It’s Ah-Xu’s home-cooked meal, so it’s delicious.”

Zhou Zishu frowns. He hadn’t tasted it before he’d served it, wanting to get food into the man as quickly as possible, so he goes to grab the spoon, forcing it from a reluctant Wen Kexing’s grip and taking a big mouthful, which he immediately spits back into the bowl.

“Ah-Xu!” 

Zhou Zishu wipes a hand across his mouth. It’s saltier than sea water and yet thin, bland. What should be silky strands of egg have a strangely gritty texture, as if mixed with sand, and if he hadn’t butchered the chicken himself this morning, he’d swear it tasted of rot. 

“Gods!” he says. “Alright, stay here, I’ll go to the market, buy some food from a stall.”

“No, no,” Wen Kexing says, holding the bowl to his chest. “It’s fine! It’s delicious!” 

“Did you have your tongue cut off last night too?” Zhou Zishu asks, attempting a failed grab at the bowl.

“Ah-Xu made this with his own hands,” Wen Kexing says, almost sadly. “His secret ingredient is love. It’ll heal me far faster than anything you buy at the market.”

“It’ll kill you and undo all my hard work last night!”

“I want to eat it.”

“You do not have to.”

“But I want to.” Wen Kexing looks into the bowl of soup like it holds the answers to some life-long question. “I want to.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Wen Kexing nods to himself, and then a small, impish smile appears. “Maybe if it makes me even more ill, Ah-Xu will have more reasons to tend to me.”

“You’ve clearly hit your head.” 

Zhou Zishu pulls at the bowl, and even despite his old-man arms, he’s got more energy in him than Wen Kexing has, so he’s able to take it back. “I’ll change your sheets, then go to the market, and then check your injury, okay?”

Wen Kexing nods, sliding down his bed and back into a more comfortable position. “If Ah-Xu promises me something.”

“Uh-huh?” Zhou Zishu says, pulling a bunch of spare bedding from a nearby dresser.

“This time, you have to kiss it better.”

Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes. He should have known better than to expect anything serious. “Shall I go find some pretty young thing to abduct? Will having a bed warmer make you behave better towards me?”

Wen Kexing is quiet as Zhou Zishu makes the bed underneath him, shifting his weight as directed so Zhou Zishu can get it underneath him, and pliant as he’s tucked in in soft, lavender-scented sheets.

Zhou Zishu thinks Wen Kexing has fallen asleep again, but fingers catch his sleeve as he turns to leave. “Ah-Xu.”

“Yes, Lao Wen.”

“Thank you.” Wen Kexing smiles, then drifts to sleep. 

-

Zhou Zishu can see the lake from a mile out, and the sight of it makes his heart sing. 

The laundry’s been piling up the last few days, and the sun is shining bright in a cloudless sky; where better to stop and have some lunch.

The turnip-headed scarecrow dressed in green and gold robes has returned, her gait bubbly and as hyper-active as Chengling, so Zhou Zishu sets the pair of them to task: stringing a washing line from the top of the castle down to the riverside, the pair of them working through the laundry baskets of bloodied sheets and muddy clothing while Zhou Zishu sets up a little chair on the grass beside them. 

If nothing else, the perks of being old far outweigh the negatives; at this moment, at least. 

Despite her muteness, the scarecrow tugs and teases at Chengling, and between washing they scrap and play, the boy’s laughter echoing out across the rippleless water and up into the mountains that surround them. 

It’s a startlingly happy sound, and one that Zhou Zishu never expected to hear again. He can almost see his Siji manor now; across the lake, unburnt and vibrant, his Shidi tumbling over themselves in training-turned-play-fights. 

He doesn’t deserve this happiness, he knows that. Isn’t that why he cursed himself in the first place? He stretches his legs out in front of him, assessing his body. Siji manor had burned down, his brother disciples had fled or killed themselves from their shame, and Zhou Zishu had been left bereft. 

He could not stand anyone from that past life recognising him, could not bare to live in the city full of ghosts, and so had punished himself and blessed himself in one, cursing himself with this body and an inability to speak of it to anyone: he could not give himself the easy out that was the ability to give any doctor the recipe for the cure. 

That little Scorpion , Wen Kexing had said. Did the man know Zhou Zishu was cursed? He had been delirious at the time, of course, but even in his state had blamed the Scorpion King. Is that how Wen Kexing had sustained his injuries? Fighting the King’s Scorpion assassins? 

No, no, it is well known that the Ghost Chief has an on-going war with the Scorpions; power and hierarchy and politics and all that nonsense. Wen Kexing isn’t fighting some silly battle thinking he is closer to curing some Scorpion's curse. He couldn’t be. There’d be no point in it. For all his flirting and his silly jibes, Lao Wen is the heart-eating Chief. He flirts with everyone, jibes and needles everyone. Zhou Zishu is not special. Even Ah-Xu is not special.

Zhou Zishu takes in a nice, deep breath of air and closes his eyes, allowing the sun to warm his cold body. He’d clearly just misunderstood Wen Kexing’s words. Zhou Zishu will continue working here in this moving castle for as long as this old body can hold itself upright, seeing the sights and hearing the laughter, and then he’ll die, and nobody will be sad about it. 

That’s all he wants. That’s all he needs. It is far more than he deserves.

“Turnip girl, stop attacking Chengling and help him carry out the lunch, I’m hungry,” he calls, and smiles as the pair scurried to do his bidding. 

-

Not for the first time, Wen Kexing is bleeding out in Zhou Zishu’s arms, bashed and bloodied head pillowed in Zhou Zishu’s lap, surrounded by the pile of rubble that is, or was, the castle; their home. 

Wen Kexing’s chest rises and falls like that of a panicked rabbit, irregular and fast and punctured, breath raspy and coming with the tell-tale gurgle of internal bleeding.

Even still, his eyes crack open, focusing hard as he blinks up at Zhou Zishu, then using Zhou Zishu’s body to pull himself upright, gasping with the pain of it.

“No, no, don’t,” Zhou Zishu begs, trying to pull Wen Kexing back down again, but the man will have none of it, casting his wild eyes around until he sees the Scorpion King, who is looking spooked where he’s sat on the last remaining platform that used to be their living room. 

“I’ll give it to you. Immortality, the Chief title, my heart , anything you want. Just free Zhou Zishu of his curse.”

“Curse?” the Scorpion King asks, bewildered. “On him? You’ve made some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Wen Kexing spits, energy crackling from him. “If I die here, I’m taking you with me.”

“I believe you,” Xi’er says, clearly meaning it. “But that mess is not mine to claim.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Wen Kexing says, moving to attack, but Zhou Zishu restrains him, putting his whole body weight into holding the man back. 

“He’s not lying.”

“I will break him!”

“Lao Wen, he’s not lying.”

“Don’t try to protect him! I will break it, Ah-Xu, I promised you!”

“Lao Wen!” Zhou Zishu says, forcing Wen Kexing’s head towards his, making them lock eyes. “He is not lying to you. He didn’t do - this - to me.”

“What are you-” Wen Kexing goes still with his realisation. “Ah-Xu, no…”

Zhou Zishu allows Lao Wen a sad smile. “Yes.”

“Fine, so break it!” 

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You’re the one who made it!”

“You underestimate me, Lao Wen. My word lasts. I don’t break promises, nor curses.”

“But-” Wen Kexing cannot finish the sentence, choking on the words as another shudder runs through him.

“But you, Lao Wen, you’re young! Don’t be wasting your energy thinking about me. I’m an old man, I’ll die soon, but you should live.”

“If you die, I die with you,” Wen Kexing threatens.

“Sounds good to me.”

“What sounds good?!” 

Zhou Zishu is loath to look away from his Lao Wen, but he does so regardless, following the sound of the voice over to the Scorpion King, who holds his hands behind his back, expression clearly guilty.

“What do you have there?”

“Nothing!”

Zhou Zishu releases a soft sigh. He has no patience for this anymore, simply places Lao Wen’s head carefully to the ground and strides over to Xie’er, hand outstretched.

Xie’er shakes his head, adamant. “You can’t have it. I found it, it’s mine.”

Zhou Zishu crouches, comes down to Xie’er’s level. He brings out his hand, lightly cups the Scorpion King’s face. “Please, Xie’er.”

The youth’s eyes are wide, innocent despite the threat behind them. They’re so trusting, those eyes. So desperate for love, for comfort, affection in any form. Zhou Zishu smiles, promising in it that after all this is done, Xie’er has a place with them, a home. It’s true, he means it from his heart. He is more than happy to collect strays, more than happy to pour from the cup of love that he is overflowing with.

Xie’er breaks eye contact first. He sheepishly offeres out his light-filled hands. 

“Took you long enough,” Ye Baiyi says, voice faint; barely pulsing in its child sized badump-badump . A human heart, smaller than the palm of Zhou Zishu’s cupped hands. A delicate baby bird, hardly keeping itself alive. 

“Elder Immortal, it’s time for you to go.”

“Peu, you think I want to stay down here with you ingrates?” Ye Beiyi says, pretentious as ever.

“Thank you for taking care of him all this time.”

“You think I did it for him?” the Immortal says, avoiding meeting Zhou Zishu’s eye. “Stinking brat, never did one good thing in all these years. I’d have killed him myself years ago if I could.”

Zhou Zishu smiles at the false-bravado. “You’ve been a good friend. I’ll miss you.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll come back to haunt you so just watch your back, brat.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Zhou Zishu gives the Immortal one last bow of his head before walking over to the too-still body.

He carefully lowers his cupped hands over Lao Wen’s still chest, lowering, lowering, until it feels like the warmth of his hands might melt through the other man’s skin. The light of Ye Baiyi’s qi flickers out as he’s swallowed up - 

- and then there’s an explosion of dancing lights. It’s like the world comes under a solar eclipse with how dark the world around them goes in comparison to the starlight fireworks bursting from Wen Kexing's chest. 

He lifts gently up in the air, body like a ragdoll at first, spirit gone from him - until it’s not, fingers shocking alive like lightning has shot from head to toe. Wind rushes down from the mountain - a freezing chill that whips at their clothing, their hair, and as if there’s ice burning through him, Wen Kexing’s hair turns a snowy white.

The stars embrace him for a while longer, taking their time to say their sweet goodbyes, until their attention returns to the skies. Zhou Zishu leaps forward in time to catch Wen Kexing, arm cradling the man’s neck and back as he carefully lowers him back down to the ground.

“Ow,” Wen Kexing says, after a moment, eyes still screwed shut.

That tips Zhou Zishu over the edge, wrapping Wen Kexing in a tight embrace, no longer keeping his tears at bay. 

“Ow, Ah-Xu, ah, you’re strangling me.”

“Who’s strangling you!” Zhou Zishu says, rocking them together. “Chief Wen needs to grow a backbone.”

“Ah-Xu forgets his strength.”

Zhou Zishu pulls back slightly, if only because he too is running out of air. Wen Kexing blinks open his eyes, eyebrows pinching slightly. “If I’ve died, this is clearly heaven.”

“Shut up,” Zhou Zishu says, cleaning the blood from Wen Kexing’s forehead and out of his eyes with his sleeve. “Who’s in heaven, featherbrain.”

“Be honest,” Wen Kexing says, mock serious. “Do I look like an old monster, now?”

Zhou Zishu lifts Wen Kexing’s hair up to his own. “We match,” he laughs, the sound wet through his tears and choked throat. 

Wen Kexing gives a tired but delighted smile. “No escape from me now, our hair is tied together.” 

“Who would escape who?” Zhou Zishu says. “I’ll have to fight away other old housekeepers with a broom, now.”

“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing laughs, wrapping their fingers together before bringing their interlocked hands to his lips. “Who’s an old housekeeper?”

Zhou Zishu looks at their fingers, and for a moment he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Can’t comprehend whose digits are tied together, until it hits him. 

His other hand comes to pat at his face - skin smooth and taught, eyes clear. His body feels lighter, sturdier, his shoulders sit straighter, his spine stronger. “I’m - it’s broken?” But that would mean- 

“Ah-Xu, you bully!” Wen Kexing complains, even as he drags Zhou Zishu down, wrapping his arms around Zhou Zishu’s neck in a ferocious hug of his own. “Bully, bully, bully,” he repeats, lips against the skin of Zhou Zishu’s neck. 

“I know,” Zhou Zishu says. “I know.”

Because yes , he thinks. This is love .

And maybe, now, that’s okay.

-

“Where the hell did the dog come from?” Wen Kexing asks, picking the thing up by the scruff of its neck. 

“Ah, it followed me home from the city. The guards called it Cao Wei Ning, but I thought it was you.” Zhou Zishu gets into the dog’s face, laughing at its mopey expression. “See? He’s just as pouty as you are.”

Wen Kexing makes a disgusted face at the comparison, holding the dog out for Zhou Zishu to catch, before pointing out the window. “And what do you call that monstrosity?”

Zhou Zishu turns to see the turnip-headed scarecrow, batting her head against the glass as if asking to be let in. “She’s another oddity, but very helpful! She keeps the crows off of the washing lines!” 

On seeing the turnip girl, Cao Wei Ning makes a strange, strangled sound and scrambles out of Zhou Zishu’s hands, the most flexible he’s ever seen the animal, rushing out of the door in its direction. 

“So many strays,” Wen Kexing mourns, casting a not-so-subtle glance at where the former Scorpion King and Chengling are peeling potatoes in the newly-built kitchen. “I thought this was supposed to be our lovey-dovey honeymoon, Ah-Xu!”

“Who’s got the time to honeymoon when you’re the new parents of two strapping young boys!” Zhou Zishu laughs, following the dog out of the house just in time to watch as animal and scarecrow bound into one another, only to be blinded by another bout of bright, magical light.

By the time Zhou Zishu lowers his sleeve from his eyes, there’s a couple of laughing, crying youths on his doorstep, hugging like they never want to let go again. They’re in matching wedding outfits, the girl in emerald green, the man in a golden red. Clearly there have been some trials and tribulations for his little turnip-girl and this poe-faced dog. He feels Wen Kexing join him and, without turning away simply says “Better make that the new parents of four strapping young children.” 

Wen Kexing sighs, harrowed by the sight. “I’m still a young man! Look at them! I’m not ready to become a grandfather!”

“Trust me,” Zhou Zishu says. “Being old comes with a lot of perks. And just think, with all these children running about, you’ll never have to eat my cooking again.”

Wen Kexing laughs at that, slipping his arm around Zhou Zishu’s waist and pulling them hip to hip. “Maybe we’ll keep them around. Just for now.”

“You’re a sap really,” Zhou Zishu tells him, but doesn’t give Wen Kexing any time to respond with some wit or sarcasm, bringing him down for a kiss instead. Wen Kexing gladly accepts the bribe, allowing the sun to warm them in their field of flowers, their family home.

“I got you something,” Wen Kexing says in his ear, voice dark, loaded. 

“Oh?”

Wen Kexing pulls him inside, leads him past the cheerful boys and up towards their new bedroom.

“Lao Wen?” Zhou Zishu asks, clearly being led to bed. “Is this really-”

He stops like he’s been frozen in place by one of Xie’er’s toxins. 

There, laid beautifully in a bed of roses, is a pristine, brand-new, shining silver bucket.

Wen Kexing is already out the door before Zhou Zishu can aim it at his head.