Chapter Text
When Zhou Zishu meets Wen Kexing, his first thoughts are beautiful and God, has there ever been a more annoying man? Because Wen Kexing is (unfortunately, undeniably) gorgeous until he opens his mouth.
“What’s your name?” Wen Kexing asks, standing over Zhou Zishu and blocking the sun. “I’m Wen Kexing.”
“Go away.” Zhou Zishu grumbles, closing his eyes and turning his head into the back of the park bench. What this man wants with him is a mystery. He could not look less approachable in his dirty gym clothes and messy everything, which is just the way he likes it.
“I hope you have sunscreen. Wouldn’t want a face as pretty as yours to burn.” Zhou Zishu blinks his eyes open, throwing an irritated look at the face looming over him.
“Go away.” Zhou Zishu repeats, adding a little more venom to his voice, hoping that will discourage the stranger.
“That’s no way to treat a friend.” Wen Kexing scolds, knocking Zhou Zishu’s legs off the bench and sitting down. Zhou Zishu’s angry huff is lost in the rustle of Wen Kexing’s clothes as he makes himself comfortable. From this angle, without the glare of the sun to obscure Wen Kexing’s face, Zhou Zishu has to admit that Wen Kexing is handsome. Those eyes and that mouth must get him out of all kinds of trouble. Or into trouble. Zhou Zishu determinedly does not think about that. Wen Kexing straightens out his expensive-looking pale blue blazer with practiced hands. It makes him look like a rich asshole who goes yachting on weekends and pays too much for weed, a thought that makes Zhou Zishu snicker. He definitely does not think about what it would be like for Wen Kexing to straighten the lapels of Zhou Zishu’s suit – a ridiculous image because nothing and no one could wrestle him into a suit these days.
“We’re not friends.” He grumbles, pushing himself into a seated position so his back doesn’t twinge.
“Sure.” Wen Kexing agrees easily. “Not until I know your name, anyway. Why don’t you tell me?”
Zhou Zishu spends a long moment staring blankly at Wen Kexing while the other man smiles serenely back, troublingly unperturbed by Zhou Zishu’s prickliness. “Zhou Xu.” He says finally, unwilling to give his real name and start any kind of relationship with the frustrating man next to him.
“A-Xu, it’s good to meet you. I know we’re going to be great friends. All my friends love me.” The affectionate way Wen Kexing says his name sets Zhou Zishu’s teeth on edge. Everything about him is too polished, too practiced. Too much sweetness drips from his lips. Zhou Zishu has had enough of pretty boys and coy smirks. The bruises his ex gave him as a parting gift have long faded but the acid taste of fear still lingers in his mouth. Not knowing what Wen Kexing hides under his carefully constructed mask scares Zhou Zishu.
A little ways away, a trio of girls are whispering to each other, casting meaningful glances at Wen Kexing. Zhou Zishu watches as Wen Kexing puts on an easy, welcoming grin that makes the girls blush. He sympathizes with them. It’s easy to look at Wen Kexing with his handsome features and elegant posture and wonder what it would be like to approach him, to flirt with him, to hold his hand, take him home, wake up next to him. Zhou Zishu is sure that Wen Kexing has more than his fair share of admirers, people who would be willing to risk rejection and humiliation to swim in the deep waters of Wen Kexing’s eyes.
It’s just another thing about Wen Kexing that irritates Zhou Zishu, so he gets to his feet with a grunt, rubbing the small of his back and leaves without looking back.
~~~
Weeks later, Zhou Zishu will look back on that first meeting and berate himself for not trying harder to keep Wen Kexing at arms length. The man has become impossibly entangled in Zhou Zishu’s life, a fact that Zhou Zishu is deeply conflicted about. Mostly because Zhou Zishu doesn’t think he should like it as much as he does.
Every so often, Wen Kexing will show up at Zhou Zishu’s apartment unprompted (and without ever having been told Zhou Zishu’s address) and cook him dinner while chattering incessantly about his life. On days when he doesn’t come by Zhou Zishu’s apartment, he texts him pictures of weird-shaped clouds and cute dogs and asks after Zhou Zishu’s day, undeterred by Zhou Zishu’s lack of response. Zhou Zishu finds all of this frustratingly endearing, which may just be Stockholm Syndrome. On rare occasions, when Zhou Zishu is feeling particularly generous, he’ll agree to let Wen Kexing drag him out to events in the city. He doesn’t like the crowds, the loud hum of traffic, the glaring sunlight bouncing off the skyscraper glass. But he likes how close Wen Kexing stays to him, guiding him gently through the currents of people with a firm hand on his back. Zhou Zishu is careful not to dwell on the thought of Wen Kexing’s hand drifting further down his back, tugging on him so he falls against Wen Kexing’s chest.
Today, Wen Kexing has pestered Zhou Zishu into accompanying him to the farmer’s market. It’s actually an outing that Zhou Zishu would have enjoyed if not for the fact that Wen Kexing bounds to every stall, insists on sampling something and talking animatedly to the person behind the counter, and then has the gall to ask Zhou Zishu to pay for whatever sweet treat or bit or produce he puts into the granny cart he pulls behind him.
“Aiya, you should be nicer to your boyfriend.” The auntie at a stall packed with Chinese deserts scolds Wen Kexing. “I see you make him pay for everything.” She looks pointedly at the overflowing granny cart.
“A-yi, don’t worry.” Wen Kexing says with a laugh, “He likes to take care of me, you know.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Zhou Zishu grumbles, trying not to feel anything about being thought of as wen Kexing’s boyfriend. “We’re just friends.”
“Hm.” Her eyes narrow as she looks between the two of them. She turns to Wen Kexing, “I hope you’re not taking advantage of his feelings.”
Wen Kexing has always been a man of many words, but he sputters and blushes when he says, “A-yi, we really are just friends. I was just kidding before.” Before she can say any more, Zhou Zishu gives her the money for the laopo bing Wen Kexing is holding in his hands and ushers them both towards the fresh fruit at the next stall.
The fruit stall may have been a mistake because the boy sitting listlessly behind the cash register brightens when he sees Wen Kexing walk up.
“Hi there! I’m Henry, can I help you?” The boy says with all the charm and vigor of a person in their early 20s. Zhou Zishu feels tired just looking at him. He presses his lips together to keep from sighing audibly and breaks away from Wen Kexing to look at blueberries, the fruit furthest away from Henry.
Because Wen Kexing is Wen Kexing, he perks up under the attention of a good-looking man. “How are your strawberries?” He asks, fingers caressing the surface of the fruit, a lover’s reverent touch. Zhou Zishu has been around Wen Kexing enough to know that he doesn’t necessarily flirt intentionally, he’s just the kind of man people want to approach.
“It’s strawberry season, so they’re the best they’ll be all year.” Henry’s eyes sharpen as he lifts one, holds it out to Wen Kexing, and says, “Would you like to try one?” At his side, Zhou Zishu’s fist clenches involuntarily, nails digging into his palms. The small prick of pain stops him from stomping over and pushing Henry’s hand away from Wen Kexing. Instead, he watches as Wen Kexing leans towards the sweet offering, lips parting, and bites into the red flesh, eyes lowered. Zhou Zishu stops breathing as he watches Wen Kexing chew thoughtfully, the muscles in his jaw working under smooth skin, then dart his tongue out to lick his lips. Zhou Zishu wants to press another strawberry to those lips, wants to run his thumb over the pout of his lower lip, wants to taste the sweetness on his own tongue.
“It’s good.” Wen Kexing says into the silence, brows furrowed and eyes darting back and forth between Henry and Zhou Zishu, who are both a little breathless. Zhou Zishu wrenches his gaze away from Wen Kexing’s mouth and goes back to studying the blueberries.
“That’s good.” Henry’s voice is a little faint. “Should I bag some up for you?”
“Yes, please!” Another pause, this time punctuated by the rustle of a paper bag and the sound of strawberries dropping into it. “A-Xu.”
“Hm?” Zhou Zishu’s face still feels warm, and he’s not sure he’s ready to face Wen Kexing yet.
“Your wallet.” Wen Kexing prompts, hand invading Zhou Zishu’s peripheral vision and making a grabbing motion. It’s childish and ridiculous and perfect, and Zhou Zishu half pretends to be irritated when he finally looks up at Wen Kexing and hands him his credit card. The rest of the transaction passes uneventfully, though Henry’s eyes do linger on Wen Kexing’s long fingers as they wield the credit card with triumphant purpose.
Just when Zhou Zishu lets his guard down, grabbing the handle of the granny cart and preparing to usher Wen Kexing away, the boy blurts out, “My shift ends in a half hour. If you – maybe – want to – grab a drink – or a coffee – or dinner or whatever.”
“Oh.” Wen Kexing’s smile freezes into a grimace for a second before melting into something kinder. “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” He grabs Zhou Zishu’s arm and yanks hard enough that he lets out a grunt when Zhou Zishu crashes into him.
“Right. Uh – sorry.” Henry stammers, blushing fiercely. “Hope you guys, um, have a good day.” Now, it’s Wen Kexing who ushers Zhou Zishu away, lacing their fingers together. Zhou Zishu shakes him off.
“Lao Wen.” His irritation escapes into his words. “What was that for?”
“A-Xu, what was I supposed to do? I wanted to let him down gently.” Wen Kexing pouts and grabs the granny cart from Zhou Zishu as an apology. Zhou Zishu lets himself be dragged towards cheeses, saving a quip about Wen Kexing’s aggressive lactose intolerance for later.
Thinking back, Zhou Zishu isn’t sure why Wen Kexing’s excuse bothers him as much as it does. It’s not like he doesn’t have the occasional fantasy about the two of them dating, filling all the lonely spaces in each other’s lives, learning and relearning the shape of each other’s bodies and souls. It’s just – it’s just that they’re fantasies. Wen Kexing will never know about them, and, above all, Zhou Zishu will never act on them. Dating has been off the table for him for a long time, the wounds inflicted by past lovers still haunting him and keeping him awake at night. Someone like Wen Kexing, whose beauty compels strangers at farmers’ markets to ask him out, is definitely off the table. Zhou Zishu suspects Wen Kexing is the kind of person who breaks hearts at an alarming rate, maybe without even realizing, though that seems unlikely because Wen Kexing is always so attuned to the people around him, how they watch him. Zhou Zishu can’t let himself get swept up in Wen Kexing’s storm. Someone else can hold Wen Kexing’s hand and feed him berries fresh from the vine, perfectly ripe and chosen with care. Someone else can love Wen Kexing. Someone else will know what it’s like for Wen Kexing’s love to drench their clothes and warm their skin.
~~~
A secret Zhou Zishu will never admit to anyone is that he has a weak immune system. It makes him vulnerable in a way he has never been comfortable with, and he is jaded enough now that he doesn’t trust most people to look after him when he does get sick. The winter months are particularly brutal, and in spite of his best efforts, he always catches at least one bad cold a year. This year’s hits particularly early, which does not bode well for the rest of the winter.
Having grown up dancing around sneezes and coughs in public places and having spent his early 20s learning his body’s distress signals and needs, Zhou Zishu is used to the perennial winter isolation and had prepared for it months ago. There are countless containers of frozen chicken soup in the freezer, all his softest and warmest blankets are clean, and he has enough pi pa gao and ban lan gen to satisfy even the most overbearing of aunties. All in all, it’s the best he’s felt while shaking and feverish.
He’s almost made it through the second full day, has just finished another bowl of reheated chicken soup, and a Chinese drama he never bothered to learn the name of is playing quietly on his TV when his front door opens and a damp, worried Wen Kexing enters. Snow glistens on the shoulders of his coat and hat. He probably walked here after he finished his shift at the hospital, Zhou Zishu thinks stupidly rather than think about how good Lao Wen looks with ruddy cheeks and chapped lips.
“How the fuck did you get in?” Zhou Zishu demands, with less force than he would like because his stuffy nose muffles the words.
“Your neighbour has a key. I jut borrowed it.” Wen Kexing dismisses the question, pulling at the buttons on his coat forcefully and throwing it off onto the floor along with his hat and gloves. He’s usually so careful with his clothes and the salt-stained tile will surely not be kind to the thick, creamy fabric of the coat. “You haven’t answered any of my texts or calls, you dickhead!” Zhou Zishu is too tired to stop himself from looking at where the sleeves of Wen Kexing’s button up have been pushed back to reveal his forearms. Wen Kexing drops to his knees by the couch and fusses with Zhou Zishu’s blankets. Zhou Zishu doesn’t push him away.
“Not all of us check our phones every five seconds, idiot.”
“It’s been three days, asshole! Have you been sick this whole time?” Wen Kexing’s hands move up to cup Zhou Zishu’s cheek then his forehead. Wen Kexing’s icy hands feel good on his feverish skin, and he lets out an embarrassing hum of contentment. The small crease in Wen Kexing’s brow deepens, his concern so blatantly on display that Zhou Zishu has to look away.
“It’s not that bad.” He tries to swallow a cough but only succeeds in making the it worse. “I’m used to it.”
“What are you even saying right now?” Wen Kexing sounds a little frantic, hands fluttering around Zhou Zishu’s face. “Does this happen a lot? Are you running naked through the streets during a snowstorm or something?”
“The cold doesn’t make you sick.” Zhou Zishu retorts. “Aren’t you a doctor? Shouldn’t you know that?”
Wen Kexing scoffs, “Oh, sure, tell that to my Luo-yi who always gives me a scarf for Christmas and scolds me for not wearing two layers of pants. Next, you’re going to tell me that drinking hot water doesn’t cure all.”
Zhou Zishu chokes on a laugh – or maybe a cough, it’s hard to tell. “Are you here to feed me hot water and keep me warm, then, Lao Wen?” He grabs a tissue from the box by his feet, blows his nose, and misses the way Wen Kexing stills and sighs softly.
“Have you had anything to eat today?” Wen Kexing asks, and Zhou Zishu nods, “Okay, that’s good. Do you want tea? I can put honey in it for your throat. I can –” Zhou Zishu stops listening past that, because no, he doesn’t particularly want tea right now. He chooses instead to sink into the welcoming heat of the couch and layered blankets and close his eyes. Wen Kexing moves through his apartment with practiced ease, pulling things out of cupboards without even thinking twice. At this point, he’s probably more familiar with Zhou Zishu’s kitchen than Zhou Zishu. After all, who needs to cook when you can send Lao Wen a sad voice message, and he’ll appear within a half hour with a bag of groceries.
The sounds of Wen Kexing puttering around in the kitchen lull Zhou Zishu to sleep, and when he wakes, it’s significantly brighter. He’s parched, and his mouth tastes foul. His struggle with the blankets must alert Wen Kexing to the fact that he’s awake because suddenly, another pair of hands is helping free him from his warm prison.
“A-Xu, you could’ve just asked for help.” Wen Kexing scolds fondly. Zhou Zishu mumbles nonsense in response and shuffles as fast as he can towards the bathroom.
When he comes back out, Lao Wen is putting a bowl of congee and a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table. He must’ve stayed the night because he’s changed out whatever clothes he was wearing last night and is now in one of Zhou Zishu’s uni sweaters and a pair of pyjama shorts.
“Don’t you have work?” Zhou Zishu asks as he sits back down on the couch. He shovels the congee into his mouth unceremoniously. A full night’s sleep has him feeling much better and his appetite is back with a vengeance.
“Called in sick.” Lao Wen says lightly, bringing over the pot to refill Zhou Zishu’s bowl.
The spoon Zhou Zishu is holding stills halfway to his mouth. “Why?”
“Who else is going to take care of you?” He says in that same mild tone of voice. “I’m here to feed you hot water and keep you warm, A-Xu. Can’t have you finding someone else and forgetting all about me.”
Zhou Zishu focuses on eating the congee and hopes that the weird feeling in his stomach is just the cold and not his enormous crush rearing its head. Lao Wen is just a friend. A good friend, sure. Probably even his best friend. But just a friend. A friend who brings his whole life to a standstill for Zhou Zishu without having to be asked. It would be easier than breathing to imagine that they were something a little more than friends. More than once, after a round of drinks turns into a late night just talking, looking out at the city from Zhou Zishu’s balcony, Zhou Zishu will look across the table at Lao Wen with the heartbreaking knowledge that he could be happy spending the rest of his life like this. When Lao Wen is wearing his clothes, looking as if he belonged in this apartment, ladling congee into Zhou Zishu’s bowl with an affectionate smile, Zhou Zishu can see their future unfolding in front of him. The two of them bickering over which frozen dumplings to buy at the Asian grocery store, Lao Wen humming something slow and sweet as he brushes Zhou Zishu’s hair, Zhou Zishu waking up to the smell off coffee and jian bing on a Sunday. The worst part is that all of those things are already a part of Zhou Zishu’s life. But they’re just friends. So Zhou Zishu sits quietly on the couch, sips his tea, and tells himself it’s enough.
A week later, it’s Zhou Zishu’s turn to practically knock Lao Wen’s door down, barge in, and order congee from their favourite Chinese restaurant because the idiot had gotten himself sick looking after Zhou Zishu.