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They find, eventually, that there’s no cure.
Maybe there had been, once, but all of that magic was used up on saving Wu Xie, on curing him, and they left Thunder City with exactly what they had gone there for. Wu Xie would feel guilty about it, later, of course he would, but Pangzi and Xiao-ge made sure that he didn’t do it for long, because anything that ailed them would undoubtedly always be better than losing their Tianzhen.
They still look, obviously. Xiao-ge’s amnesia is a looming threat, one that hangs over all the tiles of the roofs at Wushanju. It dangles over the dinner table, slips into the cracks between the plaster on the walls. They don’t talk about it, except for the times when Pangzi scribbles down addresses of shamans and monks and healers and leaves them on Wu Xie’s desk; except for the times when Wu Xie borrows textbooks about the mind and memory and brain damage; except for the times when Xiao-ge blinks and there’s a blankness behind his eyes, and he very calmly and very firmly stops talking until he retakes the thin, travel-worn threads of his mind and weaves them back into place.
It doesn’t happen often, necessarily, but it happens often enough. There are enough times when Wu Xie wakes up to find the side of the bed that Xiao-ge normally occupies empty, the man himself sitting on the other side of the room, gazing out the window as though he’s a butterfly, pinned to a glass slab. Wu Xie is breathless with him, and he sits in silence, just watching, until Xiao-ge finds his way back, or senses Wu Xie’s eyes on him and turns, his stare distant and long, and then slips out of the room with a murmured apology.
So there’s no cure. What does give Wu Xie hope is that Xiao-ge never leaves them when his memory lapses, at least not physically. Even if he doesn’t remember Wu Xie’s name or Pangzi’s laugh or the things that they’ve done together, he recalls enough of a feeling to keep him there, to allows him to stay, and that brings him back eventually.
Soon, though, a year after they retire semi-officially, even that hope isn’t enough, and the lapses in memory become longer and longer, and Pangzi starts leaving sticky notes around Wushanju, little messages that are addressed to Xiao-ge, that say, we love you, and, come talk to us, and, your sword is in the hall closet. There’s one on the refrigerator that tells Xiao-ge not to let Wu Xie eat shellfish, and another on the window in the back bedroom that Xiao-ge likes to escape out of that reminds him of the door code for when he comes back.
They never ask him not to go, and Xiao-ge never promises that he won’t.
Wu Xie thinks he’s made his peace with it. He said he would love Xiao-ge, and he will, for as long as he can. There is something in him that aches when he realizes that one day, Xiao-ge will wake up and he won’t remember any of Wu Xie, except maybe the faintest fleeting glimpses of a love that wasn’t enough to hold his mind in place, but he would rather have some of Xiao-ge than none of him at all. He can rebuild things. He can tell Xiao-ge stories; that’s why he writes everything down, so that if Xiao-ge doesn’t believe him when he says it, hopefully the seven, eight, twelve notebooks he has stacked in his study that detail all of their time together will convince him.
Pangzi alternates between ignoring it and feeding it, as he does with all problems. When Xiao-ge’s tongue falters over the syllables of Pangzi’s name, Pangzi doesn’t miss a beat, and just goes on with whatever story he’s telling. When Xiao-ge wanders into the living room without knowing how he got there, Pangzi opens his arms and waits for Xiao-ge to crawl inside, doting on him and pointing out things and explaining their meanings as though Xiao-ge is just learning about the world for the first time, which Wu Xie supposes he is, in those instances.
Wu Xie doesn’t know how to deal with it, so he just writes. He writes down everything he can think of, every moment, even the ones that Xiao-ge wasn’t there for. Most importantly, he writes letters, long, rambling treatises about his life and the things he knows about Xiao-ge’s. He writes about every single person they’ve ever come across, about Panzi and A-Ning and Liu Sang and Hei Xiazi and Zhang Rishan. He even writes about Wang Meng, who has always been present, but isn’t quite a part of Xiao-ge’s life, and about Li Cu and Su Wan and Yang Hao, who Xiao-ge wasn’t around to meet the first time, and has only briefly spoken to since. He writes about Su Nan and PiaoPiao and all of the people that were lost before Xiao-ge could even begin to build memories with them.
The Grave Robbers’ Chronicles spin onward.
The first person that goes is, devastatingly, Liu Sang.
It’s devastating because it happens so abruptly, and because none of them expected it, really. It’s devastating because they know it’s a beginning. It’s devastating because, when Liu Sang greets Xiao-ge with “Ouxiang,” with all the reverence and devotion that the nickname usually holds, Xiao-ge glares at him, and says, “That’s not my name.”
Liu Sang blinks. “I know.” He glances toward Wu Xie, hesitantly. “That’s just… what I call you.”
Wu Xie has asked Liu Sang if he can hear it in Xiao-ge when his memory leaves him. Liu Sang says he can’t, other than a slightly elevated heartbeat, but it’s obvious now that he can hear that something has changed, whether it’s from the tone of Zhang Qiling’s voice, or whatever biorhythms are beating through his body. Liu Sang takes a step back from him, his eyes shuttering.
“Who is he?” Xiao-ge asks Wu Xie, instead of just asking Liu Sang who he is, and that must also hurt.
“Liu Sang,” Wu Xie says softly. “Don’t you remember him?”
It’s fairly obvious from Xiao-ge’s behavior that he doesn’t, and Liu Sang’s eyes are fierce behind his glasses as he tries to pretend that this doesn’t bother him.
“It’ll come back,” he says, though it isn’t confident. “He’ll remember later.” He has no reason to think otherwise, because Xiao-ge’s memories have, thus far, returned if they give him enough time to process his surroundings, for his brain to catch up.
This time, however, they don’t. Xiao-ge has to re-meet Liu Sang that night over dinner, and it’s uncomfortable for all of them. Wu Xie can tell that Xiao-ge feels bad for being unable to remember the younger, but there’s nothing they can do about it. Wu Xie’s chest aches whenever he glances at Liu Sang, because whenever Liu Sang thinks that people aren’t looking at him, his eyes go wide and glassy as he stares desperately at Xiao-ge, as if wishing will make him remember again.
So dinner is a difficult affair, and Liu Sang leaves not too long afterward. Wu Xie catches him near the door, and apologizes.
“Why are you apologizing?” Liu Sang asks. “It’s not your fault.”
“It must hurt, though,” Wu Xie replies, and Liu Sang snorts.
“Not more than anything else,” he says, which is a blatant lie. He sighs. “It’s fine. Just… tell me when it happens again, okay?”
Wu Xie promises that he will, but it’s an empty sort of platitude, because there’s nothing that either of them can do that will fix this.
It’s Hei Xiazi and Xiao Hua who go next. That’s a simpler conversation, because the two aren’t actually present for it; Xiao-ge looks at a photograph of the five of them, a much younger group, he and Wu Xie and Pangzi and Xiao Hua and Hei Xiazi, and says, “Who are they?”
“Huh?” Pangzi says, because he’s the closest. He squints at the photo, because he has started needing glasses, but refuses to wear them. “That’s Hei-ye and Hua-er. They’re tomb raiders, too.”
“Oh,” Xiao-ge says, still frowning at the picture. “Are they… friends?”
“Yes,” Wu Xie says, from over on the couch. “They’ve helped us out a lot.”
Xiao-ge nods, but it’s not from familiarity toward the people, just recognition of Wu Xie’s words, and it makes Wu Xie’s heart clench in his chest.
“Where are they now?” Xiao-ge asks carefully. He does that, sometimes, when he can’t remember a person and doesn’t want to accidentally assume that they’re still alive, because in their line of work, that is often not the case.
“They’re off on adventures,” Pangzi says absently. “Xiao Hua’s younger than we are, and Hei-ye has the same sort of longevity that you do, Xiao-ge. They’ll be tomb raiding long after we’ve retired.”
“We are retired,” Wu Xie points out.
“Only until the next thing,” Pangzi says, which is his very particular stance on the whole situation. He’s perfectly content with staying at Wushanju and living in domestic bliss with Wu Xie and Xiao-ge, but he isn’t quite ready to give up the title of grave robber.
Xiao-ge sets the photograph down and comes over to Wu Xie, sitting down on the couch very primly, as though he’s barely able to balance on it. “What are you doing?”
“Reading,” Wu Xie says, though he isn’t, really; he had been watching Xiao-ge slink into the living room, and thinking about how they should get Xiao-ge some more colorful clothes to match with the eclectic Wushanju décor; it’s a house filled with odd knick-knacks and brightly patterned couches and Pangzi’s loud harem pants, and Xiao-ge fits there, but Wu Xie thinks that he might look more at home if he wasn’t constantly wearing black. He wonders if Xiao-ge will eventually forget that he only likes wearing one color.
After that is when they have to admit that it’s getting worse, that Xiao-ge’s memories are slipping like grains of sand through the cracks in the stone ceiling of a tomb, though it doesn’t seem as though there’s ever any real pattern to it. Xiao-ge doesn’t remember Kan Jian, but he knows Wang Meng. He doesn’t remember anything about Ershu or Sanshu, but Erjing is very clear in his mind. He has yet to forget Xiao Bai, but Zhang Rishan goes so quickly that the memories of him might have been lost weeks ago, and they just didn’t know it.
Xiao-ge will never say it, but Wu Xie knows it scares him.
A few days later, Wu Xie blinks awake in the dead of night. He’s not a heavy sleeper, but it takes him a moment to place exactly what has woken him.
Xiao-ge is sitting up in bed next to him, and though Wu Xie can’t exactly make out his features in the dark, he can tell that Xiao-ge is looking his way.
“Xiao-ge,” he whispers, not wanting to break the fragile sheen of silence, “Are you okay?”
Xiao-ge doesn’t say anything at first, but then his voice flits across the space between them. “I think it’s going,” he says, and Wu Xie’s breath stops.
“All of it?” he asks, almost asks, Even me? but he doesn’t want to make this loss about him, not again, so instead he says, “How can you tell?”
“It’s like…” Xiao-ge sighs, frustrated, trying to find the words that match what he’s feeling. “My teeth hurt.”
“Your teeth hurt,” Wu Xie repeats.
“Like I need to bite down, but there’s nothing there.” Xiao-ge tries to clarify, but it’s not a sensation that Wu Xie has ever experienced. “I think maybe something’s… pulling?”
“Okay,” Wu Xie says slowly, trying to puzzle this out in his own head, “Okay. So. Well. Basically, you just know.” He pauses, careful. “What do you want to do?”
Xiao-ge’s body snaps into alignment then, like the pieces of him had been slightly edged out, but at the call to action, he’s Zhang Qiling again. “Go,” he says, and is off the bed in a few fluid moments.
“Wait,” Wu Xie says, scrambling up in a much less graceful manner. “Wait, Xiao-ge, you don’t have to—”
“I should go,” Xiao-ge says, already pulling his sword from under the bed and slinging the sheath over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to—”
“Shouldn’t have to what?” Wu Xie challenges. He’s just quick enough to place himself between Xiao-ge and the door, Xiao-ge and the window. If Xiao-ge wants to escape, he’ll have to remove Wu Xie first, and he’ll never do that.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” Xiao-ge says, and, right, Wu Xie always forgets that for all of Xiao-ge’s skills, he’s unbelievably dense.
“Xiao-ge,” he says, and then “Baby,” because even the nickname, loaded with love and meaning as it is, doesn’t seem like quite enough for this. “What has ever made you think that I wouldn’t want to take care of you?”
Xiao-ge doesn’t answer, still and silent in the dark, a lonesome column of peerless strength, but Wu Xie can see the edges flaking from him.
“You’ve cared for me for so long,” Wu Xie says softly, inching forward until his hand finds Xiao-ge’s in the dark, wraps their fingers together. “Let me, please?”
Xiao-ge still doesn’t answer, but the tension is eking out of him, just a little, so Wu Xie knows that he’s staying.
“Do you want to get Pangzi?” he asks.
“It’s too early,” Xiao-ge says, which means that he does.
“It’s never too early,” Wu Xie reassures him, and then leads him by the hand from their bedroom, into the hallway.
Pangzi sleeps two doors down from them, and Wu Xie can hear his soft snores filtering through the walls, but he wakes as soon as they enter, years of sleeping in tombs and in the company of enemies keeping any of them from sleeping too heavily.
“Tianzhen?” he asks. “Xiao-ge? What is it?”
“Tianzhen?” Xiao-ge says questioningly, as though his lips are unfamiliar around the sounds, and Wu Xie thinks, Oh, this time is it.
“Pangzi,” he says instead, “Can we come in?”
Pangzi flips on the bedside lamp, and Wu Xie squints, his eyes having adjusted to the dark.
“Of course,” he says. “What is… is everything okay?”
Wu Xie pulls Xiao-ge forward, prodding him gently onto the mattress as Pangzi slides over, resting his back up against the headboard. Xiao-ge is sandwiched into the middle of them, Wu Xie bookending his other side. The two of them sit on top of the blanket, not quite willing to get comfortable, because this is going to be anything but.
“I can’t remember how we met,” Xiao-ge says after a few minutes of silence, and the short, sharp gasp that Pangzi takes in is enough to let them know that he understands. “Were we…?”
“It was Sanshu,” Wu Xie says, “My third uncle. We all met because of him.”
“Not me,” Pangzi says proudly, “I was there completely of my own volition.”
“Fine,” Wu Xie acquiesces. “You and I met because of Sanshu. Pangzi came later.”
“You saved both of us,” Pangzi muses. “From cave bugs. And zombies. And that creepy coffin thing, right, Tianzhen?”
“What’s Tianzhen?” It aches fiercely.
“That’s just what I call our Wu Xie,” Pangzi says, impossibly gentle and loving and forgiving, as he ever is with the both of them. “Like I call you Xiao-ge. You both get so big, sometimes.”
Wu Xie knows that the names were sort of diminutives, matching the vibrancy of Xiao-ge and Wu Xie’s names to Pangzi’s own, because he didn’t feel right being the only one with a nickname. Pangzi had once explained that it kept them with him, as though they were tied to him by the nicknames, and that when he called them, he knew they’d come. It keeps them from spinning too far into orbit. Pangzi likes tethers.
They sit against the headboard, Pangzi’s voice detailing their adventures in extravagant, bright colors, sometimes including things that Wu Xie had forgotten himself and things he remembers all too well, but Pangzi doesn’t exaggerate anything, as he sometimes does. Maybe he knows that Xiao-ge wants the solid, full truth, without any embellishments.
Wu Xie’s back has started to ache from being in the same position for so long, but he stays still, as though he were a sentinel, guarding Xiao-ge from whatever darkness is encroaching on him; Pangzi on the other side, two friends, lifelines, soulmates. The Iron Triangle.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Xiao-ge whispers, just as light began to edge through the curtains from the sunrise.
“You’re not,” Pangzi says, his voice barely a breath, an undercut of familiarity against an army of the unknown. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Wu Xie takes the hand that is closest to him. “You’ve done so well, Xiao-ge. You can… it’s okay.”
Xiao-ge’s voice is frustrated. “I’m… I’m trying to hold onto them, but… I can’t…” He sighs, long and deep. “I don’t remember…” He blinks. “Where are we?”
Wu Xie’s heart twists in his chest, and he leans forward, placing a kiss against Xiao-ge’s hair. “We’re home.”
Pangzi takes the other hand. “Don’t worry, alright? Pang-ye will take care of it. Just rest.”
Xiao-ge’s eyes are dewy in the morning light, soft and watery and gazing at something far away. “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Wu Xie whispers against his cheek. He hesitates, finally working up the courage to ask what he’s been afraid to for hours. “Does… does it hurt?”
“No,” Xiao-ge says, his tone softening into a sigh. “It doesn’t hurt. Not anymore.”
“Good,” Pangzi says, and Wu Xie senses him mirroring his own position, forehead pressing against Xiao-ge’s temple, keeping him between them. “Good.”
“I love you,” Wu Xie murmurs, feeling like it’s something that needed to be said, once more, as though it were the first time.
“I know,” Xiao-ge says, his eyes closing, his body going lax with it. “That much, I know.”
The morning comes, and Xiao-ge goes.
Wu Xie doesn’t know how long it takes, exactly, for the process to be completed. He hasn’t ever been there for the full thing before, just the aftermath, but he feels Xiao-ge grow hot against him, then cold, then hot again, almost as though he were running a fever, but there aren’t any other symptoms. He’s just still, quiet, as his body works through whatever metamorphosis is happening inside him.
The clock flips slowly past seven, then eight. At nine, Pangzi mutters something about breakfast, but neither of them are willing to get up, so they don’t. Xiao-ge’s head is pillowed on Pangzi’s shoulder, and Wu Xie is leaning up against him as though he can cover him from all of this, like he’s a shield that can prevent whatever this is from creeping into Xiao-ge’s mind and looting it.
At a quarter past ten, Xiao-ge shifts in their arms, and Wu Xie and Pangzi hold their breath as they watch his eyes open, as dark and unreadable as ever, though this time it’s not because there is something that Zhang Qiling is locking away behind his stare, but because there isn’t anything at all.
He opens his eyes, and he looks at them, and Wu Xie slowly sits up.
“Hi, Xiao-ge,” he murmurs. “I’m Wu Xie. This is Pangzi.”
“Oh,” Xiao-ge says, tilting his head back to see Pangzi, who is watching him anxiously.
“Are you…” Wu Xie licks his lips, swallows, suddenly realizes just how dry his mouth is. “What do you remember?”
“Am I supposed to remember?” Xiao-ge asks, frowning a little, as though he thinks he’s done something wrong.
“No,” Wu Xie says, though he can’t help the feeling of his stomach bottoming out. He hadn’t really expected there to be anything left, but he’s still sad that there isn’t. “Do you know us at all?”
“Yes,” Xiao-ge says, which causes both Wu Xie and Pangzi to blink at him in shock. “I love you.”
“What?” Pangzi blurts.
“That’s what this is, isn’t it?” Xiao-ge asks, slightly hesitant. “This warmth. It’s… I don’t know what else it could be.”
“Yeah,” Wu Xie says, “Yeah, that’s love.” He feels his eyes prickle. “How do you feel, otherwise?”
Xiao-ge considers the question. “Empty,” he says.
“Hungry?” Pangzi asks, a little eagerly, because Pangzi knows how to fix that.
“No,” Xiao-ge says. “Just empty.” He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by this, which Wu Xie supposes is something good.
“Okay,” he says. “Just empty. Is that… okay?”
Xiao-ge hums. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t seem to be willing to give up any more information than that, so Wu Xie decides to leave the interrogation for later, especially because he thinks that this new Xiao-ge will be more open to answering; he doesn’t seem nearly as closed off as theirs was.
“Well,” Pangzi says hesitantly, “Do we get up now?”
Xiao-ge nods, so Wu Xie climbs off the bed, and Pangzi lets Xiao-ge go. Once he’s on his feet, Xiao-ge stares at his own hands, puzzled, flexing them and watching the tendons move under his skin.
“I feel strong,” he says.
Wu Xie can’t help but laugh at that. “You are strong.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re very special,” Pangzi says. He glances between them, seems to sense that there are words that Wu Xie needs to say, that Xiao-ge needs to hear. “I’ll go start on the food.”
Pangzi leaves, and then the room is bright and quiet. Xiao-ge stands across from him, not in a hostile or guarded way, but as though he’s just existing in space, letting it pass without trying to hold onto it. Wu Xie, meanwhile, feels as though he’s scrambling to keep hold of something, anything, because he’s only had a few hours to think about this, and that wasn’t nearly enough time.
Xiao-ge seems to be waiting for him to speak first, so Wu Xie does.
“I know that you don’t remember,” he begins, “And that’s okay. We’ve gone through this before. You’re called Zhang Qiling, but we call you Xiao-ge. You live with us. We’ve… done a lot together. You're possibly immortal, possibly magic; we haven’t quite figured that out.” He pauses, because that is not exactly the way that he meant to say that.
“Okay,” Xiao-ge says simply.
“Okay?”
“I don’t know enough about us to know whether this is unusual or not.”
Wu Xie has to admit that he has a point. “Right. Well. It sort of is. Was. We’re retired, now, for the most part.”
“What do we do?” Xiao-ge asks.
Wu Xie frowns. “Do?”
“What do I do?” he amends, as though that specifies it any.
“You…” Wu Xie searches for the words, for the Xiao-ge that he knows, that he loves. “You wake up before me, and leave the house. I think you just run, but sometimes you’ll bring back things that you find while you’re out. You wash the dishes after breakfast, because Pangzi cooks. You go to the courtyard and run through sword forms. You polish your sword. You… we…” His tongue fumbles over the next part. “We sleep together. Sometimes we kiss. I read things out loud to you, sometimes. Other times we're just... together.”
Xiao-ge nods solemnly. “We’re married.”
A laugh is startled out of Wu Xie’s chest. “Uh. No. Well. In all the ways that matter, I suppose. Not officially.”
“What is Pangzi?”
“What?”
“Is he also our husband?”
Wu Xie snorts. “No. He might say something different if you ask him, though. He’s… he’s Pangzi.”
This appears to be an acceptable answer, because Xiao-ge just repeats, “He’s Pangzi,” as though the words will taste different in his mouth.
There’s silence after that. Wu Xie shuffles his feet. Xiao-ge watches him, the loose, lazy gaze of a panther soaking in the sun.
“Do you have any other questions?” Wu Xie asks finally. He doesn’t know how much of this is sticking, how much Xiao-ge really understands. He wants to ask how he feels. He wants to ask a lot of things.
“Yes,” Xiao-ge says. “What’s for breakfast?”
They relearn a lot of things.
Xiao-ge, fortunately, remembers all of the basic actions and qualities of life; talking, bathing, eating, cooking, swordplay. The swordplay is a bit surprising, but Wu Xie supposes that it’s something that is as deeply rooted as breathing to him, so it makes sense that his body would remember what his mind does not. He has some latent knowledge about tombs, about creatures, about his blood, and other things about his Zhang characteristics begin to filter back in, as though his mind is aware that he needs to know those sorts of things.
He has to relearn Wu Xie and Pangzi though, and that’s harder than Wu Xie had thought it would be. Not for Xiao-ge, who seems perfectly content to accept whatever Wu Xie and Pangzi tell him about himself, about them, about their lives together, but for Wu Xie, who can’t help but feel that he’s cheating, somehow, like he’s cultivating a new Xiao-ge, building him the way that he wants, rather than letting him grow organically.
“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve said in weeks,” Pangzi says bluntly when Wu Xie confesses this to him. “Plants need water to grow, idiot. You won’t help him by keeping things from him.” The lines on his face soften into something familiar, comforting. “He’s still Xiao-ge. He’d turn out the same, whether you pushed him to it or not.”
Wu Xie’s not so sure. This is a new Xiao-ge, once that is less wild, less unfathomable. He pads around the house, following Pangzi as though he will teach him everything he needs to know about the world. He sits quietly in the living room with Wu Xie, watching him appraise antiques that are brought to Wushanju. He lingers in doorways, at the edges of the windows, like a shadow, a ghost, but at least he’s there.
Wu Xie’s not sure why Xiao-ge stays, other than because he has nowhere else to go, and that feels more like a trap than like love.
It takes a week for things to build enough to boil.
Wu Xie has been on edge for most of those days, though he can’t exactly place why that is. Xiao-ge hasn’t done anything differently than normal—well, than their new normal, anyway. He’s a little softer around the edges, a little quieter, a little less willing to leave, as if he’s afraid he’ll forget where to return.
It’s been a week, and Wu Xie is in his study, looking over online orders—Kan Jian had somehow convinced him to create a website for Wushanju’s antiques collection, which Wu Xie has to admit has upped their profits considerably—when Xiao-ge wanders in, poking around in the book stacks. He reminds Wu Xie a little of a house cat, one that is content to simply be in the same room while going about its own business.
Suddenly, though, Xiao-ge says, “What’s this?”
Wu Xie looks over. He’s located the box that Wu Xie keeps all of the Xiao-ge Things in, the ones that Xiao-ge brings back when he goes out. He doesn’t want to sell them, but he doesn’t have a particular use for them either, so he just keeps them together.
“Oh,” he says, “Those are yours. You kept bringing things back to me after you went out. I keep them in that box in case you ever want them back.”
“But I gave them to you?” Xiao-ge asks.
“I mean, yes,” Wu Xie says. “Only because I was there, I think.” He looks over to see Xiao-ge frowning into the box, very intently. “Is that… okay?”
“You lied,” Xiao-ge accuses him.
“What?”
“You said we weren’t married.”
“We’re not,” Wu Xie says.
Xiao-ge holds up the box. “But you have these.”
Wu Xie finds himself with his mouth hanging open, unsure of how to respond. “Does that… mean something?”
“They’re courting gifts,” Xiao-ge says, as though Wu Xie is dense.
Wu Xie blinks. “What?”
“I gave you this one first,” Xiao-ge says, pulling a wooden box out, and the surprising thing is that he’s right; that is the thing he first came back with. “Then this—”a bracelet—“then this—”a small glass perfume bottle—“Then this—”a woven tapestry, barely the size of Wu Xie’s palm.
“You remember that?” Wu Xie asks.
“No,” Xiao-ge says, “But I know the order in which Zhang proposal gifts are given.”
Wu Xie feels a little lightheaded. “So… you… we…”
“I only needed one more,” Xiao-ge says, slightly mournfully, gazing into the box in sorrow, and that snaps Wu Xie out of it.
“I mean, you did,” he says, “It’s not like it matters anymore.”
Xiao-ge looks up at him, blankly. “Why not?”
“Because…” Wu Xie doesn’t want to say it, but he won’t be able to forget it until he does. “Because you don’t remember. How can you… your feelings must have changed.”
Xiao-ge’s eyes go dark, unreadable, and then, very gently, he sets the box down, turns on his heel, and leaves the study.
Wu Xie remains slumped in his chair, head whirling. He can’t… he doesn’t know how to reconcile this with the grief he’s been feeling since Xiao-ge’s memories disappeared. Because he has been grieving. He didn’t want to admit it, but he has.
So he does what he always does when he’s faced with a problem too loud to keep inside his head; he goes to Pangzi.
Pangzi takes one look at him and groans. “Not again.”
Wu Xie frowns. “What?”
“I thought we were done pining,” Pangzi says grumpily, crossing his arms over his chest. “You and Xiao-ge got together a long time ago.”
Wu Xie throws his hands out. “Is that supposed to mean something, now?”
“What are you talking about?”
“He forgot, Pangzi,” Wu Xie says. “He forgot everything about us, everything that we’ve been through. How could he still love me without all of that?”
Pangzi’s mouth falls open. “Tianzhen. I say this lovingly, but you are, without a doubt, the most idiotic person I’ve ever met in my entire life.”
This seems slightly uncalled for, so Wu Xie says, “Hey!”
“What was the first thing he said to us when he woke up?” Pangzi demands. “What was it?”
“I don’t know,” Wu Xie says, “Probably that he didn’t remember anything.”
“He remembered love,” Pangzi says. “And you think that that doesn’t have anything to do with you?”
“I don’t want to force anything onto him,” Wu Xie protests. “I can’t make up his feelings.”
“You also can’t deny him them!” Pangzi exclaims. “If that’s all he has left of his old life, why are you insisting on taking that away, too?” He sighs. “I know that you’re deeply insecure, Tianzhen, but I’m begging you, for once; trust Xiao-ge with something other than your life.”
Wu Xie blinks at him. “He loves me?”
“Obviously,” Pangzi says.
“Fuck,” Wu Xie mumbles. “I… I didn’t think that…”
“Oh, my God,” Pangzi mutters. “Get out of my sight before I strangle you.”
Wu Xie does, turning so fast that he nearly trips over his feet, and pulling out his cell phone, an idea blossoming in his mind as he dials a number that he hardly ever uses.
“Zhang Rishan,” he says when the other line picks up, “I need to ask you something.”
He finds Xiao-ge on the roof, watching the sunset.
Wu Xie really shouldn’t be on the roof, because he’s disaster-prone at the best of times, but if he is going to make an astounding declaration of love, then he’s going to do it right.
Xiao-ge doesn’t turn when he finally clambers onto the tiles from the rickety ladder he found in the shed, but with the amount of noise that Wu Xie was making, he has to know that he’s there.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Wu Xie asks. Xiao-ge shrugs. He doesn’t appear to be protesting Wu Xie’s presence, so Wu Xie sits down next to him.
“I got you something,” he says. Xiao-ge side-eyes him, slightly curious, his specific brand of communication comforting instead of awkward. “Hold out your hand.”
Xiao-ge does, and Wu Xie deposits the item that he’s been keeping in his pocket into Xiao-ge’s palm. It’s a pen, and not even a particularly nice one, but it’s one of Wu Xie’s favorite brands, and it’s almost out of ink.
“Before you lost your memory,” he says, “I wrote down everything. All of our history together, all of the things that we’ve done. I don’t know if you knew—you forgot, anyway—but there is a stack of notebooks in the library that are yours. I wrote them for you, with this pen.”
“Why are you giving me a pen?” Xiao-ge says, his voice so deadpanned that Wu Xie can’t help but laugh.
“Zhang Rishan said that the last courting gift is something that you make,” he says. “Something that encompasses your shared history, and indicates that there will be more to come. I just couldn’t carry twelve notebooks up here.”
The lines of Xiao-ge’s face soften, his eyes squinting just a little, which Wu Xie knows is how he smiles.
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” Wu Xie murmurs. “Can I try again?”
In lieu of an answer, Xiao-ge reaches to the side and comes back with his fist closed around something. He motions with his eyebrows for Wu Xie to hold his hand out, and when he does, Xiao-ge drops something into it.
It’s a little piece of black jade, only about the length of Wu Xie’s pinky, delicate and detailed, a tiny sword that Wu Xie only recognizes as the one that he had once given Xiao-ge once he’s looked at it closely, turning it in his fingers and feeling over the ridges and lines and stone that’s been carefully and lovingly shaped into a small piece of them.
“I found it a few days ago,” Xiao-ge says. “I didn’t know what it was for.”
Wu Xie marvels at it, at him. “But you do now?”
“I do now,” Xiao-ge confirms, leaning in and kissing him against the sunset.
It’s the first in a series of hundreds, and it’s enough to make Wu Xie forget everything else.