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1.
Sui Zhou wants nothing more than to soak in a hot bath and crawl into bed to sleep off the pain, but as it turns out his new tenants have other ideas.
“Sui Guangchuan, you can’t even cook!” Tang Fan explodes, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Behind him, Dong’er is gazing at Sui Zhou with wide, concerned eyes, her mouth pursed with worry.
Sui Zhou tries to shrug, but can’t even do that, and at his wince Tang Fan strides forward, seizing his uninjured arm. “Come on. We’re going to see Lao Pei.”
Somehow, Sui Zhou is letting himself be dragged along. Tang Fan’s grip on his arm is surprisingly firm and startling—Sui Zhou’s body isn’t quite sure what to do when it’s not a hostile touch.
He’s only met Pei Huai once before, and over a body. There must be something dubious in his expression, because Dong’er is hurrying along behind them, chattering reassuringly—apparently, Pei Huai is not a freelance coroner, but one of the most skilled doctors in the city outside of the Palace, and also happens to be Tang Fan’s best friend.
Sui Zhou sighs in resignation as he observes the startled looks that onlookers give them as he’s dragged through the streets. Belatedly, he wrenches his arm free, glaring at Tang Fan when he wheels around with his mouth open. Before he can yell, Sui Zhou gestures him on, and Tang Fan narrows his eyes, waiting for Sui Zhou to come abreast of him before continuing a little slower.
Sui Zhou appreciates it, though doesn’t admit it. Being dragged behind a horse is really starting to sink into his wrenched muscles and jarred bones.
Pei Huai doesn’t seem surprised to see them, as though Tang Fan bursts into his consulting rooms not infrequently. He listens to Tang Fan’s somewhat biased explanation of their presence with raised eyebrows, then calmly turns to Sui Zhou. “Sui Baihu, would you like to explain your injuries so I can treat you?”
A little of the irritation seeps out of Sui Zhou; at least someone is willing to listen to his opinions on the treatment of his own body...which is in quite a bit of pain, actually. He thinks wistfully of his bathroom, the fragrant steam rising from the hot water.
“I was in pursuit of a robbery suspect,” he says. “The man mounted a horse. I grabbed the saddle as it went past.”
Pei Huai seems unimpressed. “It didn’t stop, I take it?”
Sui Zhou shakes his head, then can’t help a wince at how it pulls on his throbbing shoulder. His grip had slipped down to the stirrup, and he’d been dragged a surprising distance before the horse finally came to a halt.
Pei Huai tsks, seeing his grimace. “Sit down, sit down. You’ve wrenched something, obviously. Tell me where it hurts.”
Sui Zhou is not unused to being treated by army doctors, their touches brief and professional, often delivering more pain as part of their methods to heal. He braces himself, holding his body stiffly as Pei Huai starts to examine where Sui Zhou gestures.
Pei Huai palpates his shoulder, lifts his arm. Tests its extension and rotation. Sui Zhou hisses through his teeth, tense both from the touches he’s unused to, and the pain that spears through him.
“Dong’er,” Pei Huai says absently, stepping back and starting to poke around at the various jars and sachets on his desk.
“Mn!” Dong’er steps forward eagerly. With the pain preoccupying his attention, Sui Zhou had forgotten she was there, and Tang Fan as well, who’s standing a few paces away, wringing his hands.
“Go and heat some water for tea,” Pei Huai throws over his shoulder.
Dong’er nods swiftly and turns to run out of the rooms again in a swirl of skirts.
Pei Huai sighs, returning to Sui Zhou’s side with a jar of something in his hand. “Take your clothes off,” he says to Sui Zhou brusquely, not even looking at him as he starts to tie back his sleeves.
Sui Zhou frowns. He glances at Tang Fan—not that he’s self-conscious; it’s not something he can be, having served in the army for most of his adult years—but to gauge what’s going on.
“Aiya, just the top half,” Pei Huai clarifies. “I’m going to apply this balm, it should ease the pain a little.”
Slowly, Sui Zhou unbuttons the breast of the baihu robes, painstakingly shrugging off the layers beneath. Tang Fan makes a movement as if to step forward and help, but Sui Zhou’s warning glare keeps him back. His middle clothes are much easier to slide off his shoulders, and as it slips down around Sui Zhou’s waist Tang Fan sucks in a sharp breath.
Sui Zhou looks down. The bruises have started emerging already. Pei Huai has scooped a handful of ointment out of the jar he’s holding, and is rubbing it between his hands. A moment later, he’s laying them on Sui Zhou’s shoulder, digging in with the points of his fingers, kneading with his knuckles.
Sui Zhou gasps, the pain from the pressure in his torn muscles warring with the unfamiliar warmth of having someone else’s skin touching his. The sensation sticks solid in his throat, and he grimaces, head hanging low as he forces himself to bear it.
“There,” Pei Huai says at last, his touch ceasing, and Sui Zhou slumps with relief. He has to admit, it does feel better, looser. “You should massage this balm into it at least twice a day to keep it from seizing for the next week. It’s important to keep it mobile.”
Sui Zhou looks up at him, frowning. He can’t reach that part of his back himself, can barely reach his own neck with how painful the strained muscles in his shoulders are.
“I can’t come here twice a day,” he says, voice unexpectedly gruff. He needs to work, there’s no way he can cross the city for this and see to the rest of his duties. An opportunistic arrest of a petty criminal can’t take him out of action for days.
“You don’t have to,” Tang Fan blurts out. “I’ll do it.”
Sui Zhou stares at him in alarm. Tang Fan stares back with wide eyes.
“Yes, perfect,” Pei Huai agrees heartily. “Tang Fan, come here, I’ll demonstrate again.”
Sui Zhou’s neck prickles as Tang Fan hurries around behind him, and Sui Zhou can’t see either of them, but he startles when Pei Huai’s hand lands on his shoulder.
Pei Huai explains to Tang Fan how to treat Sui Zhou’s body, how much pressure and for how long, on which parts of his arm, neck and shoulder. He lifts Sui Zhou’s arm, demonstrates the motion of the muscle and where to dig in fingers; Sui Zhou sits in mortified silence, feeling like a cadaver under imminent autopsy, or perhaps an animal carcass about to be butchered.
Most embarrassingly, he feels over-sensitised from so much touching, goose pimples breaking out over his skin, nipples hardening. He tries to fold his other arm over his chest and winces again.
Tang Fan clears his throat. “Thank you, Lao Pei,” he says hurriedly.
“We’ll make an assistant of you yet,” Pei Huai jokes, and they both finally move away. “Come on, I’ll fetch some more of that balm.”
Sui Zhou sighs with relief, reaching with slow, careful movements for his rumpled clothes, pulling them up over his shoulders with held breath. Finally, he’s covered again, and feeling like he’s regained at least some dignity.
His muscles will heal, they always will. Even if it takes a little longer than they would if he visited Pei Huai twice a day—let Tang Fan bring more ointment home. Sui Zhou will do what he can, and Tang Fan will hopefully forget about his offer to help.
*
1.5
It may still be early in their acquaintance, but Sui Zhou is starting to learn that Tang Fan rarely forgets things—be it obscure verse from a poet he studied in the Academy, a snatch of trivial conversation overheard during a stake-out, or an offer to massage Sui Zhou’s injured shoulder twice a day.
He’s not lurking in wait under the bathwater this time, at least. Instead, he follows Sui Zhou to his bedroom, close on his heels. He doesn’t even have the manners to look apologetic when Sui Zhou turns to find him barely a step away. Sui Zhou sighs, another thing he’s done more in the past week of Tang Fan’s acquaintance than he has in the past three years.
Unfortunately, a stony glare does not deter him. Tang Fan holds up the pot of balm, waggling it.
“He only did it a few hours ago,” Sui Zhou protests, though it was in fact several hours ago. And his shoulder is stiff, shooting with pain each time he moves it.
“Lao Pei said twice a day,” Tang Fan says, sounding like a scolding parent.
Sui Zhou is starting to learn that it’s easier to give in to Tang Fan’s demands than try to resist; it seems the smoothest way of interacting with him even when it’s not on the Han Zhao case.
Sui Zhou leaves the door open behind him as he walks stiffly into his bedroom, aware of Tang Fan coming in behind him as he moves about the room to light the lamps. The back of Sui Zhou’s neck prickles, but he doesn’t turn around, taking his time unbuttoning and removing the outer robes of the flying fish uniform, conscious that Tang Fan is watching every painstaking move. He finally turns back with his teeth gritted when he’s done.
Tang Fan is standing by Sui Zhou’s bed, fiddling with the pot in his hands. He looks like he feels out of place. It’s an expression that Sui Zhou hasn’t seen on him before; this is the man who was determined to visit the Iron Market despite Sui Zhou’s direst warnings.
Tang Fan frowns, looking down at Sui Zhou’s chest. “Aren’t you going to take that off?”
For some reason, it feels even more vulnerable to be bare-chested in his own bedroom than it did in an unfamiliar doctor’s consulting rooms. “The treatment will be just as effective through the cloth,” he says stiffly.
Tang Fan makes a noise of disbelief. “I somehow doubt that this will,” he retorts, holding the pot of balm up. His eyes narrow as he scrutinises Sui Zhou’s expression. “Or is Sui-daren too modest to disrobe? First he forgoes a shared bath and now this?”
Sui Zhou stares at him stonily. Tang Fan is trying to rile him—no matter that Tang Fan can run circles around him when it comes to intellect, Sui Zhou is not an idiot. But what Tang Fan doesn’t know is that Sui Zhou is not embarrassed. He doesn’t care about humiliation, about honour for honour’s sake. And modesty isn’t something he’s ever had.
Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think he could explain his reluctance: that he already feels raw, over-sensitised, from Pei Huai’s touches earlier in the day. That repeating the experience here, in his own home, with Tang Fan’s hands instead of a physician’s, would be even worse.
Sui Zhou has constructed a very complex suit of armour around himself over the past year or so. It had been rudimentary at first; dependent only on his ability to work independently, to tackle any challenge thrown at him without assistance. Over time it has become more flexible, allowing engagement with others. But there is still a point of weakness in it—a simple human touch.
Unlike any real physical armour Sui Zhou has worn, it’s purpose isn’t to keep others out. It’s to contain himself within.
Perhaps he could shout, rail, threaten. Frighten Tang Fan away. Tang Fan might be upset about it. Scornful or angry. Perhaps he might even decide he no longer wants to live with Sui Zhou, ridiculously cheap rent be damned.
Sui Zhou swallows tightly and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He stares straight ahead, hands feeling numb as he unties his middle shirt. He keeps his eyes on his knees as he shrugs it off, and Tang Fan doesn’t speak. Sui Zhou almost feels that that’s worse—Tang Fan’s rapid-fire nagging might actually occupy some of the space between them, making it feel less like… Like Tang Fan is seeing him uncovered, unprotected. Like Tang Fan is about to touch his rawest parts.
He’s being absurd. There is no danger here. Sui Zhou gives a harsh sigh, then positions himself on the edge of the bed, one knee folded up and his other foot braced on the floor. His injured shoulder on the outside, he bows his head and braces himself.
“There, Guangchuan,” Tang Fan murmurs quietly. “Was that so hard?” There’s still something startling about hearing his courtesy name from Tang Fan’s mouth. They hardly know each other.
And yet, Sui Zhou is about to let Tang Fan lay hands on him.
He keeps his breathing steady, listening to Tang Fan uncap the top of the jar. He must scoop out some of the balm; Sui Zhou can hear him rubbing his hands together. There’s the whisper of fabric and the shiver of displaced air against Sui Zhou’s back, then Tang Fan’s voice close enough that Sui Zhou’s shoulders tense: “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
The first touch brushes against the top of Sui Zhou’s shoulder, and he stifles his gasp. Tang Fan’s hands are cold. After a moment, his touch firms, fingers digging in, the heels of his palms dragging. Sui Zhou hisses through his teeth, overwhelmed: the pressure is getting to the core of pain in his muscles, loosening it, even as the touch is making him feel emotionally like he’s being delicately flayed.
“Sorry,” Tang Fan mutters, sounding genuine. Sui Zhou can’t help but choke out a laugh: is this the first apology Tang Fan has given him since turning his life upside down? The beginnings of his response can’t form, instead his thoughts scatter as Tang Fan takes his wrist, carefully lifts his arm. Digs his thumb into the tender muscle bordering Sui Zhou’s underarm.
Sui Zhou whimpers. It genuinely hurts, but he hasn't voiced his pain since he was a small child. The tenderness of the sensation goes beyond flesh. Humiliated, he wrenches out of Tang Fan’s grip, holding his arms close to his torso, his shoulders hunched.
Behind him, Tang Fan takes a breath as if he’s going to speak. He’s not touching Sui Zhou any more, and Sui Zhou’s aching muscles tense in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say next.
Instead of speaking, he lays his hands flat on the backs of Sui Zhou’s shoulders. They’re not cold any more; using them has sped the blood flowing through them, warming him. The same way his touch has brought the blood to the surface of Sui Zhou’s skin: his back feels hot and sensitive.
“I can—” Tang Fan starts hesitantly, and finally Sui Zhou leans forward and away, breaking the contact. He manages to suppress a wince as he reaches for his discarded shirt, pulling it back on hurriedly.
“Well,” Tang Fan says as Sui Zhou knots the ties at his waist. Sui Zhou turns around to stare at his hands as he tries to get the lid of the jar back on, fumbling a little with his still-greasy hands. Finally, he accomplishes the task, and looks at Sui Zhou with a determined expression. “I will see you again tomorrow morning.”
He turns in a swirl of white skirts and exits the room, taking the jar with him as though he doesn’t trust Sui Zhou with it. Sui Zhou finally lets himself slump, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. Is this what a cut of meat feels like after being tenderised?
He drags his hand over his face, already dreading tomorrow.
*
2.
Sui Zhou comes awake groggily, his awareness rising in tandem with a noise of pain that surges up his throat.
What happened? Where is he? Are his eyes open? He blinks frantically, but all around him is dark. Tang Fan?
Panic grips him violently, and he tries to sit up, aware at least that he’s lying on his back.
“Guangchuan, Guangchuan, calm down.”
Even as pain stabs through his skull, the sound of Tang Fan’s voice sinks in and his movement is aborted. Sui Zhou gasps raggedly. “Are you alright?” he asks urgently.
A strangled laugh comes from somewhere above him. “Am I alright? Of all the stupid questions—” Under Sui Zhou’s shoulders, something shifts. Something warm. Oh. He’s lying across Tang Fan’s thighs. Instinctually, he tries to sit up again, to relieve the burden of his weight, but pain shoots through his head again.
“Guangchuan, stop. You’re hurt.”
Tang Fan’s hands are on his face then—feeling around in the dark. His fingers ferreting through Sui Zhou’s hair. It’s disorienting. In this space determined to give him no other sensations but pain and Tang Fan’s touch, both are so intense that Sui Zhou has to gasp again, close his eyes.
“There’s blood,” Tang Fan says, voice wavering. “At the back of your head—sorry!” His fingers find the injury, and Sui Zhou flinches away. “I didn’t know if you were going to wake up.” Tang Fan’s voice quivers.
Sui Zhou makes himself calm. Tries to force the tension from his body; it will hurt less then. Shifts his focus from bouncing between the pain of his head and the shock of Tang Fan’s touch, tries to drag himself back in time, to remember—
The quarry. They’re in one of the mining tunnels, where they’d been following Tang Fan’s lead on another body. There was a flicker of torchlight behind them, and when Sui Zhou had turned around, he’d glimpsed a figure striking at one of the timber supports—then an ominous rumble, a crash, and Sui Zhou had thrown himself at Tang Fan desperately, and then—
Tang Fan’s breathing is loud in the dark, harsh. Sui Zhou’s head throbs asynchronously to it, his stomach churning. His eyes feel heavy, wanting to let him sink into oblivion again.
“Sui Zhou!”
Sui Zhou’s body jerks, and he groans. Tang Fan’s hand is tight in the front of his uniform, his other hand twisted in the hair at the back of Sui Zhou’s head.
“Don’t,” Tang Fan urges. “Don’t fall asleep, please.”
Sui Zhou can hear the fear in his voice, and it galvanises him, sending enough adrenaline through his body that he feels keenly alert.
“Sorry,” he says roughly, then clears his throat. Even though he can’t see, he feels as though the world is spinning around him, like he’s on rough seas. He needs to focus. They both do. “Have you explored where we are?”
“Only enough to find you,” Tang Fan says, brusque in a way that suggests he doesn’t intend to explore any further.
“Alright,” Sui Zhou breathes out. “No light?”
“No.” Tang Fan’s voice is soft. Small.
Sui Zhou nods, even though it hurts, knowing Tang Fan will feel it with his hand cupping Sui Zhou’s head. No light means no opening. Which probably means no air, beyond what’s contained in here with them. Sui Zhou listens to the sound of their breathing, trying to hone on the closeness of it, if there’s any echo, attempting to determine how small the chamber they’re trapped in is.
“When did you send that message to Wang Zhi?” he asks, voice still rough. Already, he’s thirsty.
“This morning,” Tang Fan says, then laughs nervously. “I think it was this morning—I don’t know how long it was before you woke up, Sui Zhou. It felt like a very long time.”
Sui Zhou’s heart twists in his chest. He curses himself for getting injured—if they are to be stuck here, slowly suffocating or starving, then it should be Tang Fan who goes first, swiftly and painlessly. Not left in the darkness with Sui Zhou’s decomposing corpse.
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan says again, urgently. “You’re too quiet.”
“I’m here,” Sui Zhou replies, trying to shake off his morbid thoughts. Wang Zhi will understand the urgency of Tang Fan’s message. It won’t take him long to follow their trail.
“I know you don’t like to talk much,” Tang Fan says. “But. Please.”
Sui Zhou’s first instinct is to talk about food, but he quickly quashes that urge; they don’t need any reminder that hunger will soon impose itself on them, alongside thirst. So he starts with the rota of the Imperial Guard squads, outlining in detail the considerations of different skill levels and interpersonal dynamics needed to make it all work. That flows on into training regimens, which somehow ends up with his own army training, which leads into his breath heaving in his chest as his feet pound the ground, the terrifying staccato of the Oirat cavalry behind him, herding them into the caves. Then his brothers in arms screaming for mercy, and the stink of burning flesh—
“Guangchuan!”
He chokes on his own dry throat, hands reaching up to clutch—
Tang Fan’s hands, resting on his chest. A nightmare. He must have fallen asleep. At least he’s too weak, too injured to hurt Tang Fan.
The stone cavern hunches low above them, invisible in the dark but oppressive in Sui Zhou’s memory. Why are they in this wretched place? The ghost of burning lingers in the backs of his nostrils.
“You don’t have to talk any more,” Tang Fan says. “It’s alright. Maybe I can just…”
The hand on Sui Zhou’s chest moves, sliding slowly up to his throat. Tang Fan tucks it into the neck of Sui Zhou’s robes, until it’s resting on his bare skin over the notch of his collarbone. “At least I can feel this way,” Tang Fan says, sounding both apologetic and grim.
Sui Zhou’s heart thuds up against Tang Fan’s palm. His hand rises with Sui Zhou’s breath. The touch seems to impale him, to where Tang Fan is cupping the back of his head as well, like a spear pinning him down. Or, grounding him. Even in his dazed, pained state, Sui Zhou’s skin seems to spark at the touch, embers ascending rapidly from a fire, spinning dizzily into the night.
He tries to wet his dry mouth and fails. Tang Fan’s hand is steady, warm.
“Talk,” Sui Zhou grates.
Tang Fan’s breath huffs against Sui Zhou’s face, an echo of amusement. He must have his head bowed over Sui Zhou’s. Sui Zhou is, for an instant, grateful for the blinding dark. He doesn’t think he can bear seeing Tang Fan this unavoidably close.
“I was thirteen when Jie married He Lin and I came to the capital. I had never made friends easily when I was younger, and we never had any cousins, younger or older, so imagine my surprise when the other students at the Academy showed some interest in befriending me…”
Sui Zhou drifts. His body cupped in a coracle surfing the very tips of the waves, the rhythm of Tang Fan’s speech making his stomach rise and drop, his brain thudding into his skull. He’s startled back to awareness when Tang Fan stops to cough, then can’t stop—Sui Zhou feels wrenched with guilt. He shouldn’t have asked him to speak. They’re both desiccated from thirst. And the air, it must be running out.
He reaches up to where Tang Fan is touching him; his arm feels as unwieldy as a block of wood. Tang Fan’s hand is slender and smooth when he drops his own hand onto it, though. “It’s alright,” Sui Zhou whispers. “Save your breath.”
Something presses against the back of Sui Zhou’s hand. Against his wrist he feels the tickle of hair. Curling under the collar of his shirt, the caress of Tang Fan’s warm breath. He’s pressing his forehead to their clasped hands.
Sui Zhou squeezes weakly. He can’t tell Tang Fan it’s going to be alright. If they aren’t to die peacefully, they can still die honestly.
Time passes; Sui Zhou can’t tell how long, but it feels endless. The only beat of time is the rhythm of their breaths, and even the pauses between inhale and exhale seem to stretch longer, an endless void opening up in the silence. Has it been a year? A day?
Yet it feels like only an instant later when Tang Fan is jerking under him. “We’re here!” he screams, sounding painful and torn. There are answering scrapes, metal against rock, rock against rock, the grinding shift of boulders. Sui Zhou can’t tell if his eyes are open or not, but they must be, because when light spills into their little tomb he squeezes them shut in agony.
“You look terrible,” Wang Zhi’s voice rings out cheerfully, echoing like their own voices haven’t until now.
“Shut up,” Tang Fan says, his tone as stony as the rock around them. “Sui Zhou is hurt.”
Sui Zhou can’t keep his eyes open any longer. He would groan, but he can’t muster the energy. His head hurts, it hurts, it hurts. The glare of the torches seep through his eyelids, stinging and burning.
Tang Fan frees his hand from under Sui Zhou’s, then he’s covering Sui Zhou’s eyes, blocking out the last of the light. Sui Zhou gasps with relief. “It’s alright, Guangchuan,” Tang Fan says. “It’s alright."
*
3.
They’ve been riding in the heat for six days when the tree line breaks, revealing the vast expanse of the sea, glittering like bright shards of metal in the sunlight.
Beside him, Tang Fan gasps. There are murmurs from the other men too, and when Sui Zhou turns to look back over his shoulder, it’s to see eight hopeful stares gazing back at him under the brims of Imperial Guard helmets.
“Dage…” Xue Ling starts.
Sui Zhou smiles, nods once. “It’s another week before we can have a bath. Let’s go.”
He rides along the edge of the dunes until they find somewhere the carriage can stand, flat and shaded, and the rest of his guards dismount and hitch their horses at the edge of the trees. Xue Ling gives him a glance and Sui Zhou nods. “Go ahead. I’ll guard the prisoner.”
“Sui Zhou!” Tang Fan exclaims, just as Xue Ling says. “But Dage!” and the other men glance amongst each other, their expressions a mix of resignation, disappointment and determination.
“I’m not going if you’re not,” Tang Fan says, crossing his arms over his chest, despite the fact that he’s been complaining with increasing volume about how filthy he feels and how much he misses their bath at home over the past five days.
“Neither are we,” Xue Ling speaks for the men, and Sui Zhou sighs. He could order them to go. But Tang Fan would never listen to him. And he doesn’t know how many more days of complaining he can handle on their long journey back to the capital.
He sighs in resignation, suspicious of the victorious glance Xue Ling and Tang Fan exchange.
A simple rota in place, they leave a pair of guards with the carriage for the next half hour and start walking across the sand to the shoreline.
The sand grabs at Sui Zhou’s boots thickly. It’s been a long time since he’s seen the sea. Tang Fan pants as he slogs across the beach, keeps stopping to exclaim over seashells. Ahead of them, the guards pick up their pace as the lace-edged waves creep over the wet sand to meet them. One of the men whoops, then they’re all tossing their helmets aside, heeling off boots, tearing off their uniforms with a speed that makes Sui Zhou blink.
Next to him, Tang Fan rises from his crouch over some treasure, shielding his eyes with his hand as he peers towards them. The bridge of his nose is pink, dusted with transparent curls of peeling skin; his broad-brimmed hat had been destroyed in the ruckus when they apprehended their suspect back in Fuzhou.
He starts walking towards the water with a new focus, and Sui Zhou follows.
The men have all stripped off, the sight of their bare backsides making Sui Zhou smile as they leap into the sea. Naked, he’s reminded of their individuality in a way that sometimes feels difficult when they’re obedient in uniform. Their bare bodies are slender and fat, stocky and slim. Most scarred and muscled, some more than others.
Sui Zhou sits on the sand to take his boots off, then his hat. The brass button of the flying fish uniform is hot from the sun. Next to him, Tang Fan starts to get undressed more slowly, still squinting out into the glare of the water.
“Guangchuan,” he says at last, sounding reluctant. “I can’t swim.”
Sui Zhou shoots him a small, reassuring smile. “It looks shallow enough,” he says, nodding out to where his men are standing chest deep, or floating—some splashing each other and laughing.
“Alright,” Tang Fan says. “But I’m staying close to you. Just in case.”
Sui Zhou represses another smile. It’s unlike Tang Fan to be so cautious; he’s usually quick to throw himself into danger. Still, Sui Zhou remembers the first time he saw the sea himself. Its beauty and immensity, even now, is something his mind struggles to encompass. If anything, it’s reassuring that Tang Fan is giving it the respect it deserves with his wariness.
Sui Zhou stands to strip off his middle trousers and inner clothes, then starts striding towards the water. The men cheer, looking to him as he starts wading in and he huffs, shaking his head. The water isn’t cold as much as it’s crisp, the instant it covers his feet sending a shiver of pleasure up his body, days of sweating into his boots sloughing away in the wet sand underfoot in an instant. When the water is lapping at his thighs, he dives forward, immersing himself, then resurfaces with a gasp. The temperature is perfect, and he treads water, the surface of the water licking at the top of his chest.
Tang Fan is standing near the shore, only shin deep. His hands are cupped between his legs, his shoulders hunched. “Guangchuan!” he squawks. “It’s cold!”
To their great credit, the guards don’t laugh aloud, though Sui Zhou hears a snicker or two. Xue Ling shouts, “Come on, Tang-daren! The faster you get in, the quicker you’ll get used to it!”
Tang Fan’s exasperated sigh is audible over the distance between them. He takes another sloshing step or two forward, yelping as a gentle wave rises to creep above his knobbly knees and back down again.
“There’s no need to be shy, Tang-daren,” another one of the men calls. “We’re all men here!”
Tang Fan looks up and scowls. “I said, it’s cold,” he says snootily, not removing his hands. “Not all of us are men of the sword.”
Sui Zhou hides his grin under the surface of the water, a surge of amusement lifting him up and rocking him in tandem with the movement of another wave.
Tang Fan gets closer, making directly for Sui Zhou. Sui Zhou hasn’t seen him naked before—certainly not in the bright sunlight. Tang Fan’s skin is smooth and unscarred, just dotted here and there with beauty marks—on the side of his thigh, his shoulder, the curve of his ribcage. He’s so thin that it makes Sui Zhou’s hands itch to get into the kitchen, but there’s a naive sort of grace to him too—long limbs shivering at the supposedly cold water, nipples pebbled. His skin is like the creamy inside of a seashell, and Sui Zhou has the vivid memory of brushing one against his lower lip to feel how smooth it was.
“Tang-daren! You’re running out of time!” a shout comes from behind Sui Zhou, and Tang Fan takes another lurching step forward. The water is reaching up to flirt with the tips of his fingers.
Exasperated, Sui Zhou rises up out of the water, putting his hands out and surging forward to send a wave splashing up into Tang Fan’s chest. The look of shock and betrayal on Tang Fan’s face is there for an instant, then he’s tumbling back into the water, splashing and spluttering. “Guang—!” he manages to shout in outrage before he goes under.
Panicked, Sui Zhou swims forward, but even though the churning water smoothes again, there’s no sign of Tang Fan.
A burst of laughter from his men is the only warning he gets before there’s something crashing into his back, something warm and smooth and painfully bony, and Sui Zhou is being shoved down under the water himself.
It only takes him a moment to recover from his surprise, and he shoves the weight off and comes up spluttering, whipping around. Tang Fan is grinning wickedly, hair soaked, droplets glimmering on his eyelashes. He’s treading water. Sui Zhou has a moment to feel outraged that he lied about not being able to swim before Tang Fan is launching himself forward again.
He’s all elbows and knees and digging toes, giggling as if he’s not worried about breathing in water, and Sui Zhou wrestles back with something like shock. He’s not sure if it’s Tang Fan’s smooth, slippery limbs that make it hard for him to get the upper hand, or his own reluctance to use real force. The guards are laughing and cheering, and Sui Zhou finally has enough of his head going under that he braces his feet wide on the sandy bottom and surges up, heaving Tang Fan up and away. He lands with an almighty splash, coming up a moment later spitting and laughing, shaking his head like a dog.
“You win this time, Guangchuan!” he shouts delightedly. “But I almost had you, didn’t I?”
Sui Zhou’s heart is pounding, the salt water on his skin prickling, currents of the waves winnowing around him. He starts to wade back towards the shore. It’s time for a shift change.
*
4.
Most of the time, cooking is something meditative, focusing. Sometimes, it’s a way to escape, the regular rhythms of it something he can do without thinking. There are times that it gets away from him, though, when he’s not aware that he’s disappeared into himself until he’s looking down at a half-chopped onion, or pan of smoking oil.
This time, it’s pain that shocks Sui Zhou back into awareness. Searing across his skin, the smell of burning suddenly clawing its way into his nostrils. He rears back, gives a choked shout of shock, then rushes outside. He finds the nearest vat, dropping to his knees and thrusting his burning hand into the water.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Throbbing pain that only increases instead of easing; the back of his hand red and inflamed through the wavering surface of the water. Sui Zhou gasps, bowing his head and forcing himself to breathe through it.
Behind him is the rapid patter of footsteps. “Guangchuan!”
Sui Zhou looks up. His eyes are watering. Tang Fan’s expression is shocked, anxious. “What happened?”
Sui Zhou nods towards the kitchen. “The hot oil. Go and take it off the stove. Take a bucket, in case it’s caught something on fire.”
Tang Fan frowns, runs into the kitchen without even stopping for a bucket. A moment later he’s running outside again. “Everything’s fine, you already took it off the heat.”
Sui Zhou exhales heavily, head dropping again. He doesn’t even remember doing it.
Tang Fan kneels next to him, peering into the water. He puts his hand on Sui Zhou’s shoulder, the feel of it shivering and scraping through Sui Zhou as if Tang Fan has touched the raw flesh of the burn itself. “Is it bad?”
“I’ll live,” Sui Zhou grates out. Trying not to think about the sensation that his flesh is being eaten away. That it’s melting out from the thinner skin at the back of his hand and rushing toward his fingers. His sword hand. His kitchen knife hand.
“Show me.” Tang Fan’s voice is soft, gentle. Sui Zhou is still breathing hard, catching in his throat. He brings his hand closer to the surface of the water, but can’t bring himself to lift it out into the open air. Tang Fan makes a small noise when he sees the raw, burnt flesh. “Alright,” he says. “Just stay there. Lao Pei told me that the longer you keep it in the water, the quicker the burning will stop.”
There’s something in the quiet confidence of his tone that makes the screaming, animal reaction to the pain rushing through Sui Zhou’s body ease. He shifts, moving from his knees to sit on the paving stones instead. Why did it have to be burning? He would rather have chopped his own thumb off with the cleaver than feel this.
Tang Fan seems to be waiting for something. Sui Zhou nods once without looking up at him, and Tang Fan uses his hand on Sui Zhou’s shoulder to brace himself as he rises to his feet again.
Sui Zhou closes his eyes, listening to Tang Fan climb the steps to the dining room. His footsteps move into the annex where Sui Zhou’s desk is, and Sui Zhou hears him slide a wooden box off the shelves. It’s held basic medical treatments since Sui Zhou moved into this house; the few occasions he’s had to open it over the past few years he’s noticed more treatments appearing in it with Pei Huai’s stamp on the labels.
Tang Fan returns with an armful of supplies—clean, white cotton bandages and a pot of ointment. He sits cross-legged on the ground next to Sui Zhou, but doesn’t speak, and doesn’t make Sui Zhou look at him, just stares into the water where Sui Zhou’s gaze rests as well.
Sui Zhou didn’t expect his bedside manner to be so empathetic. Then again, he supposes that while Tang Fan is loud and demanding when it comes to how he expects to be treated, he hasn’t shown evidence of expecting everyone else to be treated the same way.
Sui Zhou’s breath slowly calms. He dreads lifting his hand out of the water, but knows it has to be done. Tang Fan comes up to his knees when Sui Zhou finally does so, breath catching as the water runs off his ruined flesh.
“Ah,” Tang Fan exhales. “It’s not so bad. Here.” He holds out his hands. At a loss as to what else he can do, Sui Zhou offers his injured hand for Tang Fan to take, which he does incredibly delicately. “I’m going to dry it a little,” he says, glancing up at Sui Zhou. “This ointment will help the pain, then we can take you to Lao Pei.”
He uses some of the cotton to dab the unburnt skin around the wound carefully. Sui Zhou feels a rush of relief to see that the injury doesn’t look as terrible as it feels—there will be scarring, and a long time to heal, but he can’t see any muscle or bone, so will hopefully maintain the use of his hand.
The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.
Tang Fan cradles Sui Zhou’s hand as though it’s an injured bird, fragile and panicked, at risk of hurting itself further if he startles it. The sight of it makes Sui Zhou’s throat tighten. His skin is so sensitive from the rushing sparks of pain that Tang Fan’s light touch on his wrist makes tears push hot behind Sui Zhou’s eyes.
When the wound itself has air dried, Tang Fan uncaps the jar of ointment. “This might hurt,” he says, as though it’s not already throbbing in steady, searing pain. “I’m sorry.”
Sui Zhou closes his eyes. ‘Agony’ feels as though it should be an exaggeration, given the hurts he’s been through in his life, but Tang Fan’s gentle touch as he holds Sui Zhou’s hand coupled with the excruciating pain of the ointment being smoothed over the burn is almost unbearable. His breath rattles in his throat. The pain prickles over the skin of his entire body, making him shudder. Then Tang Fan is lifting his hand carefully, binding a cotton bandage around it.
“There, all finished,” Tang fan whispers, and Sui Zhou opens his eyes. His vision is swimming, and he blinks until he can see Tang Fan’s distraught expression clearly.
“I’m sorry,” Sui Zhou rasps, in his weakened state grasping for the most painful thought of all and offering it to him: “I won’t be able to cook for you.” Or protect him, if he gets in any kind of trouble. What use is he at all, without his right hand?
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan blurts. One hand still cradles Sui Zhou’s injured one. But his other hand reaches out to grasp the back of Sui Zhou’s neck, pulling him forward. Sui Zhou’s heart lurches in shock, then Tang Fan is pressing his forehead to Sui Zhou’s and he’s taking a deep, shaky breath before exhaling.
He lets go, and Sui Zhou rocks back, stunned. Tang Fan finally releases his hand.
“Dong’er can teach me to cook while you’re healing. Between the two of us we’ll manage.”
Sui Zhou must make a face, because Tang Fan’s expression clears and he laughs. “Come on,” he says, taking Sui Zhou’s elbow and moving to rise. “Let’s go and see Lao Pei.”
*
4.5
To Sui Zhou’s great relief, Dong’er both comes home before dinner time and refuses to let Tang Fan help her cook. She takes in Sui Zhou’s apologetic expression with a frown that folds into something distraught when she looks down at the mitten of his bandaged hand. Then she takes a deep breath, as though fortifying herself. “What would you like for dinner, Sui-dage?”
Anything that requires chopsticks is out of the question. Dong’er makes mantou and serves it up with pickled vegetables, things Sui Zhou can eat easily enough with his left hand. By the end of the meal he’s exhausted, finding himself staring sightlessly into the distance, only realising after it’s happened that Dong’er and Tang Fan have cleaned up around him.
Sui Zhou blinks. He can hear them speaking quietly in the kitchen. After long moments of straining his ears but picking up nothing, they both appear side-by-side in the dining room, hands held politely in front of them. Sui Zhou is immediately suspicious.
“You should sleep in tomorrow morning, Sui-dage,” Dong’er says. “I’ll run a message to the Northern Administrative Court first thing.”
“You should go to bed, Guangchuan,” Tang Fan adds. “Your body needs rest to heal.”
Sui Zhou sighs, worn too thin to put up a fight, and rises to his feet.
Tang Fan follows him to his bedroom. Sui Zhou stops at the door, turns to give Tang Fan an unimpressed look. Tang Fan doesn’t back down. Sui Zhou doesn’t know what he was expecting.
“Are you just going to try and get ready for bed on your own?” Tang Fan scoffs. Gone is the calm bedside manner, the comfort delivered through gentle touch.
He has a point though. Sui Zhou turns away, gritting his teeth, but leaves the door open behind him as he steps into his bedroom.
Tang Fan moves about quickly, lighting some of the lamps. Sui Zhou’s sleep clothes are still out, at least, but he’s dressed in his house robes, his grease-stained apron and his sleeves all tied up. He’d stumbled through the streets in them earlier. Sui Zhou reaches behind himself to try and unknot the cord of the sleeve ties, and winces as the movement pulls at the wound on his hand.
Tang Fan tsks right behind him; the noise and proximity making the hair on the back of Sui Zhou’s neck prickle. He smacks Sui Zhou’s left hand lightly, then he’s deftly loosening the ties, Sui Zhou’s sleeves finally dropping back down to his wrists. The apron is the next to go, waistband tugging before loosening and falling to the ground. It’s far from the dignified efficiency of a servant attending his master, but that’s not what Sui Zhou was expecting, was it? It’s not what he wants, anyway.
What does he want?
Tang Fan comes around to stand in front of him, a bored sort of pout on his face as he starts to work on the ties holding Sui Zhou’s outer robes closed. Sui Zhou slaps his hands away.
Tang Fan steps back, frowning and looking up to meet his eyes. Sui Zhou’s hand throbs. Why is it that he could survive so long on his own, and now Tang Fan is here in his bedroom again, once more tending to him?
“I’m not an invalid,” Sui Zhou grits out. His outer robes hang open, draping off his shoulders. He feels painfully vulnerable. The thought of Tang Fan going any further, undressing him, laying hands on his bare skin again, makes him feel as though he’s about to march into battle, heart in his throat.
Tang Fan huffs a sharp exhale. “Suit yourself,” he says shortly, and stomps out of the room.
Sui Zhou hears the door close behind him, and his shoulders release at last, dropping heavily as he sighs.
His hand throbs to the beat of his heart. He sits carefully on the edge of the bed and starts to carefully undress.
He’s down to his middle layers and decides that sleeping in them will be good enough when the sound of the door being pushed open again makes him jump.
Tang Fan appears again around the edge of the privacy screen, a basin in his arms, steam wreathing faintly from it. It sloshes as he stomps back into the room, water dripping onto the floor.
“Here,” he says brusquely. “Dong’er thought you might want to wash.”
Sui Zhou looks long enough to take in the mulish expression on his face, then looks away again. Tang Fan huffs, then continues walking to the wash stand. Sui Zhou winces at the sound of water slapping on the tiled floor as Tang Fan places the basin down less than carefully.
The sound of his footsteps stop, though. Sui Zhou looks up, finds that Tang Fan is standing in front of the basin, his back to Sui Zhou, still in a way that he rarely is. There’s no mirror there for him to be looking at. But he doesn’t seem to be focused on anything.
The moment holds still for a long moment. Without his bidding, Sui Zhou’s mind presents him a picture of what might happen next. Tang Fan could take up one of the cloths resting on the side table. He could soak it in the warm water, wring it carefully out. Bring it to where Sui Zhou is sitting, half dressed. Take Sui Zhou’s face in his hands and clean it with steady, careful touches.
A shiver overtakes Sui Zhou’s body, and he shoves the vision away. Then gasps in pain; he’s tried to clench his fists.
Tang Fan turns. His expression is a mix of concerned and determined. “Guangchuan—”
“Go away,” Sui Zhou grits out. Somehow, he manages to put enough menace into it that the concern bleeds out of Tang Fan’s expression, replaced with irritation.
“Fine!” Tang Fan says. “Be stubborn and in pain! See if I care!”
He stomps out of the door again, slamming it behind him.
Sui Zhou sighs, covering his eyes with his left hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. All he needs to do is get his boots off. Then he can sleep, and tomorrow things will be better.
*
5.
Xue Ling is a traitor. Sui Zhou should give him what he deserves, turn him in for Imperial justice.
No, worse. He should turn Xue Ling over to Wang Zhi.
Xue Ling doesn’t seem to be affected by Sui Zhou’s dark thoughts towards him. He’s too busy gesturing, drawing Tang Fan in to take a seat at their table. The other guards holler and howl their welcomes as well, and Sui Zhou can’t help but wonder when they all became so friendly with him.
Most of the guards are tipsy already, not that Sui Zhou begrudges them that, it’s been a long and difficult case they closed today, one that used all their manpower and ran on very little sleep. He has no issue with settling their bill, either.
Xue Ling pours Tang Fan a bowl of wine, and Tang Fan finally looks over to where Sui Zhou sits at the head of the table. He’s smiling, but his eyes examine Sui Zhou closely.
Sui Zhou can’t hold his gaze, bringing his own bowl to his lips, drinking from it to hide his face. He’s only had a little wine compared to the rest of them, but his cheeks already feel hot.
Why does he resent Tang Fan being here? Tang Fan worked on the case harder than anyone. Sui Zhou certainly doesn’t begrudge spending money on him. He can’t hold it against Xue Ling for inviting him.
And yet.
Tang Fan’s long, slender fingers have pried cracks into the skin of Sui Zhou’s armour, the same armour that has served him so well leading his men over the years. Here with all of them surrounding him, he feels those gaps keenly exposed. Tang Fan is far out of reach at the other end of the table, yet Sui Zhou feels as though his most tender parts are on the verge of becoming revealed.
His bowl is refilled. He drinks.
*
Tang Fan holds his own surprisingly well. Sui Zhou watches as the esteem in his guards’ eyes grows as he keeps up with them, downing each bowl of wine poured for him. The hours pass, and Tang Fan’s cheeks grow flushed, his eyes languid. His smile is always broad, laughter loud. Sui Zhou can’t stop looking at the dimples in his cheeks.
When Tang Fan’s eyes start to droop as he rests his chin on the prop of his hand, leaning in to listen to Xue Ling speak, Sui Zhou stands up. His head swirls, but not too much—he’s definitely the least drunk person at the table; one of the guards is lying on his folded arms, asleep and snoring.
The remaining open eyes turn to him. He gives Tang Fan a pointed look. “It’s time to go home.”
Tang Fan sighs gustily. “Alright, Guangchuan,” he says dramatically, words slurring a little. He blinks widely, head tilting back to keep watching as Sui Zhou walks towards him. “I hope you brought your money. I’m all out.”
There are a few chuckles from around the table, and Sui Zhou presses his lips together. Of course he brought money; he made arrangements with the innkeeper before they even sat down.
Tang Fan leans precariously as he shifts his weight to stand, and Sui Zhou grips him by the elbow to haul him up. Tang Fan stumbles, and Sui Zhou uses the hold to steady him.
“Sui Guangchuan, Sui Guangchuan,” Tang Fan chants quietly, leaning in against Sui Zhou’s side; Sui Zhou tenses to provide a steady surface. A moment later Tang Fan leans back, somewhat finding his balance. He waves his free arm in the air, looking back over his shoulder. “Goodnight, everyone!”
There’s a chorus of goodnights back, including some thank you, Dages, and Sui Zhou starts leading Tang Fan outside and into the dark street.
He can still walk, at least, though he continues waving his arms around, entertaining an invisible audience as he recounts in a drunken drawl the fascinating conversation he was having with Xue Ling about literacy and mathematics. Sui Zhou stays alert at his side, ready to grab him at any sign of instability, and Tang Fan’s stumbling steps knock their shoulders together more than once.
By the time they get to Northern Revered Lane, it’s more than the occasional bumping stumble; Tang Fan is leaning against Sui Zhou’s shoulder in order to keep upright, and he’s panting from the walk and the relentless talking. And probably from weariness, Sui Zhou thinks. They worked through the night last night; Sui Zhou’s surprised he didn’t fall asleep after his first jar of wine.
He falls quiet as they reach the gate. Sui Zhou wonders if Tang Fan is about to fall asleep as he leans precariously; Sui Zhou wraps an arm around his shoulders to guide him up the steps and down again on the other side. They make it through the front courtyard and the dining room, and when they reach Tang Fan’s bedroom door, Tang Fan groans and clutches at the chest of Sui Zhou’s uniform, leaning heavily.
“Guangchuan,” he slurs. “I am a helpless drunk. You need to help me.”
Sui Zhou sighs, rolling his eyes, and opens the door to Tang Fan’s room. He guides them inside, then dumps Tang Fan on his bed. There’s a little moonlight coming through the windows, enough to see as Sui Zhou lights a couple of nearby lamps. When he turns back, Tang Fan is sprawled out on his back where Sui Zhou left him, his thighs propped on the edge of the bed, legs wide under the white skirts of his robe. His eyes glitter from under his eyelashes as he watches Sui Zhou, his arm folded up so the backs of his curled fingers rest against his own cheek.
Sui Zhou frowns, then reaches to pull off Tang Fan’s boots.
“Sui Guangchuan,” Tang Fan groans. His body jerks as Sui Zhou unceremoniously drops his leg. Mid-way through pulling off the second boot, Sui Zhou inhales as Tang Fan’s socked foot somehow scoops under the skirt of his baihu robes, his toes poking clumsily as he drags them up Sui Zhou’s leg.
Sui Zhou smacks it away, dropping Tang Fan’s boot and his other leg simultaneously. When he looks up, Tang Fan is pouting.
He shouldn’t have looked up.
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan says sulkily, his fingers plucking uselessly at the button on the breast of his robes. “Can you help me?”
He shouldn’t. Tang Fan can sleep in his clothes. Sui Zhou should just scoop him up by the ankles and swivel him around to be lying properly, put out the lights again and retire himself.
He shouldn’t. And yet, feeling the little cracks in his armour be pried further open, he leans in.
He’s drunker than he thought. Unsteady on his feet. When Tang Fan laughs and wraps his legs around Sui Zhou’s thighs, Sui Zhou loses his balance, pitching forward. He catches himself before he lands on Tang Fan, bracing his hand on the bed, but Tang Fan isn’t helping, his own hands clutching at the chest of Sui Zhou’s uniform again.
Their faces aren’t the closest they’ve ever been. But they’re in Tang Fan’s bedroom. On his bed. Tang Fan’s flushed face is below him.
Sui Zhou’s heart is racing. He goes to push himself up and away.
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan groans again, his grip tightening. “What do I have to do to make you kiss me?”
Sui Zhou jerks back, but Tang Fan’s hold on him is surprisingly strong. Sui Zhou reaches to pull his hands free, but at the first touch of skin on skin, finds himself frozen.
He can’t look away from Tang Fan’s wide, wine-flooded eyes. “You’re drunk,” Sui Zhou says hoarsely.
Tang Fan finally breaks the connection of their shared gaze, rolling his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t mean it,” he slurs. “Don’t you want me?”
“Don’t,” Sui Zhou says. His hand tightens on Tang Fan’s, managing to pull him away, but then—he doesn’t let go.
The sulkiness has gone from Tang Fan’s mouth, the low-lidded flirtatiousness from his eyes. The look he’s giving Sui Zhou is soft, soft enough to make a stone swell in Sui Zhou’s throat. Somehow Tang Fan frees one of his hands. Sui Zhou’s eyes close as it finds the side of his neck. Tang Fan’s hand is surprisingly warm, the sensation pricking up into his scalp, shivering down his chest.
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan whispers, and Sui Zhou lets him tug him down and press their mouths together.
He’s drunk. Tang Fan is drunk too. It makes everything feel a little distant even while it’s so immediate: Sui Zhou’s body is pressed against his, his thigh between Tang Fan’s sprawled legs, Tang Fan’s arms wrapped around his neck. The kiss is messy, the drag of their lips sloppy and wet, Tang Fan’s tongue pressing eagerly into Sui Zhou’s mouth.
The need Sui Zhou has kept under tight rein surges to the surface and threatens to drown him. It’s been loosened by the wine, along with the host of the rest of his misgivings. He and Tang Fan tumble over the bed, rolling and clutching, but really, too tired and drunken to make anything of it. Their kisses drag off over cheeks and chins, and Tang Fan is sprawled over Sui Zhou’s heaving chest, his breath hot against Sui Zhou’s jaw.
Sui Zhou’s skin is buzzing, disbelief and something else—maybe euphoria, maybe dread—running through him deeper, a powerful current.
“Runqing,” he whispers,unsure of what he wants to say, unsure of everything. His armour has cracked wide open, and underneath it is a raw, tender mess. Like the flesh revealed by a burn, all nerves and hurt. Like the petals of a magnolia blossom, unfurled on a bare branch after a long winter.
Tang Fan’s breath has evened out. He’s a dead weight holding Sui Zhou down. Asleep.
Sui Zhou exhales shakily. He feels a powerful urge to pull himself back together. Wrap the tattered rags of his self-control back around him and slink to his own bed. Tang Fan probably won’t even remember this in the morning. And that’s probably for the best.
He doesn’t move, though. What if he wakes Tang Fan? He needs to sleep, after days on the case with little rest. Sui Zhou will just wait here. When dawn comes, he can extract himself, be gone before Tang Fan even wakes.
He’ll just wait.
*
+1
Sui Zhou wakes up, a slow return to awareness that’s steeped in warmth. When he finally opens his eyes, he blinks at the unfamiliar canopy above him, frowning.
A moment later, he realises where he is. He jerks upright, heart pounding violently in his chest. Sunlight warms Tang Fan’s room; it’s late. Sui Zhou looks down. Tang Fan is sprawled out next to him, lying on his belly, face mashed into the coverlet. He’s still asleep.
Sui Zhou lets out a slow breath of relief, even as alarm still pulses through his veins, leaving him shaking. It’s ridiculous. But he didn’t intend to fall asleep. Didn’t intend to stay here. Didn’t intend to—Tang Fan kissed him.
Sui Zhou climbs off the bed carefully, dreading waking Tang Fan up. His belly is full of an uneasy sort of lightness, anticipation and nausea.
Tang Fan was drunk. He’ll be hungover. He won’t even remember anything, and that’s for the best.
Sui Zhou should make him something hot and greasy for breakfast. The need to return to normality as swiftly as possible feels urgent.
He heads to the bathroom first. Sleeping in his clothes—not to mention his boots—has left him feeling seedy, itchy. Not to mention being on his feet for two days without pause.
The water is cold, but it brings clarity, wakes him up the rest of the way. He pads back through the house to his own bedroom in his middle clothes, bare-footed. His uniform will need washing before he wears it again, but it’s his day off anyway. There’s no sign or sound of Dong’er in the house; she’s probably already gone to the market. They tend to cook together whenever Sui Zhou isn’t working.
He’s picking his house robes out of the wardrobe when there’s the sound of his door slamming open. For a moment, his hand goes to his hip for his sword, then his shoulders slump as Tang Fan’s voice calls out, “Guangchuan!”
Tang Fan appears around the edge of the privacy screen. His hair is tousled, fabric folds imprinted on his cheek. There’s a fine dusting of sleep flecked at the corners of his eyes.
Sui Zhou looks away after his brief examination, turning back to the wardrobe though his traitorous heart is leaping and pounding again. “I’ll make you breakfast in a moment.”
“That’s not—well, I am hungry, but—” Tang Fan stutters. His hands are on his hips. Sui Zhou walks past him with his eyes down, then comes to an abrupt halt when Tang Fan grabs his wrist. “Sui Zhou,” he says. “Why did you leave before I woke up?”
Sui Zhou looks up at him in surprise. He remembers, then. Sui Zhou’s heart is thudding at the base of his throat. “You’re hungover,” he deflects, voice rough in his throat.
Tang Fan rolls his eyes. “I’m drunk, I’m hungover. So you say. I might not be a cultivator of martial arts, Sui Zhou, but I can drink your guards under the table.”
His hand is still around Sui Zhou’s wrist. Sui Zhou can’t bring himself to pull it free. He doesn’t realise he’s staring at it until Tang Fan’s grip tightens gently, and Sui Zhou inhales shakily when Tang Fan strokes his finger against the inside of Sui Zhou’s wrist, where the cuff of his middle shirt doesn’t quite reach.
“Guangchuan,” Tang Fan says quietly. “You only ever touch me when you’re manhandling me around, like I’m an unruly suspect. But most of the time, you let me touch you however I want.” Tang Fan is looking into Sui Zhou’s eyes, but Sui Zhou can’t make himself look up to meet his gaze. “I thought I’d figured it out,” Tang Fan continues, his voice soft. “Guangchuan. Was I wrong?”
It’s difficult to keep his breath even, his chest burning with the need to pull in air, as though he’s been running.
The silence drags on painfully, then Tang Fan sighs, finally releasing him. “I’m hungry,” he says easily. “What’s for breakfast?”
He wanders out of the room again. With numb hands, Sui Zhou finally shrugs on his house robe. Tang Fan is already in the kitchen when Sui Zhou enters, leaning against the bench at his usual spot, crunching on a pear. He looks over his shoulder at Sui Zhou, raising his eyebrows. Sui Zhou grabs his apron and sleeve ties, knotting them on in long-practiced movements as he walks to the store room.
Flour, water, pork mince and eggs. Chili and scallions. Tang Fan makes excited noises about the smell as Sui Zhou tosses the noodles in the wok, and can’t even wait to walk to the dining table to eat, scooping the noodles out of his bowl with the cooking chopsticks at the workbench. Sui Zhou can’t find it in himself to care that much, grabbing another pair himself and leaning back against the bench next to Tang Fan to eat. He still can’t meet his gaze, but can’t make himself put any distance between them either.
The food settles Sui Zhou’s stomach, and his mood. It lets him order his thoughts again, and order everything else the way it should be as well. Tang Fan was drunk last night, and it’s not uncommon for wine to make the most sedate of men (which Tang Fan definitely is not to begin with) amorous. And his words this morning—he’s off on one of his tangents again. Sometimes when he’s solving a case, he extrapolates the most absurd scenarios as a way of broadening his mind to find the real answer. Sui Zhou just has to remain quiet, to keep back and watch, and Tang Fan will untangle himself into making sense again.
When Sui Zhou sets down his bowl and looks up, Tang Fan is watching him keenly. The mortar holding Sui Zhou’s orderly bricks of sense together turn to sand at the intensity of his gaze.
Tang Fan pushes himself away from the bench. He comes to stand in front of Sui Zhou, and leans past him to place his empty bowl in Sui Zhou’s. It’s completely gratuitous and unnecessary, the only purpose of it to bring their bodies closer—it’s successful at that, at least, the fabric of their house robes brushing. Sui Zhou is still leaning back, but he’s tense. His blood pounds through his body. Traitorous of the armour he’s used to keep it safe all these years. Yearning.
He’d gone without for so long that he should have adjusted. Believed he’d trained himself out of needing it. Instead, when Tang Fan rests his hand against Sui Zhou’s chest, it feels as though he’s a young man again, fresh and eager to be touched.
His breathing is shaky. Even if Tang Fan weren’t the most skilled sleuth of the city, Sui Zhou wouldn’t be able to hide it from him; it makes his chest rise unevenly, and rasps in his throat. Tang Fan’s other hand slides around Sui Zhou’s waist, and he uses it to pull himself closer. Press their hips together.
Sui Zhou swallows, watching Tang Fan watch the movement of his throat. Sui Zhou’s focus narrows down to Tang Fan’s parted lips without his permission.
“I’m not wrong,” Tang Fan says, quiet and assured. His lips stained with the heat of the chilli Sui Zhou sprinkled over the noodles. “Am I?”
Sui Zhou kisses him to shut him up, nothing more. But once he starts, he can’t stop. It’s not just the feel of Tang Fan’s smooth lips against his. It’s Tang Fan’s chest swelling with his inhalation; the sound he makes as he exhales, the caress of his breath against Sui Zhou’s upper lip. His arms are wrapped around Tang Fan, clutching at his back. Tang Fan’s weight is leaning in against him, pressing Sui Zhou to the bench.
Sui Zhou breaks off with a gasp. Tang Fan is staring at him from a bare handbreadth away, his eyes gleaming victoriously. Already, Sui Zhou is feeling the familiar sense of resignation to bending to Tang Fan’s wants. Ever since he met Tang Fan, it hasn’t been a feeling he resents. Not when it brings with it such warmth, such a sense of fulfilment and purpose.
The familiarity of it curls around Sui Zhou’s shivering nervousness like a cat twining around ankles, trusting and eager, affectionate. Sui Zhou’s armour feels like a physical thing Tang Fan has just removed, he feels as light as though it was made of iron, as though he’ll be whipped away on the wind without Tang Fan’s grounding arms around him.
Tang Fan. “Finally,” he breathes, mouth twitching in a smile. Sui Zhou can’t look away from him. “Can we go back to bed now?”