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Zishu's hand moves before she is even fully conscious, trained by force of habit to grope along the side table for her coffee. Her fingers skate across the polished wood and find nothing until they slip into empty air, and so she is forced at last to open her eyes and take a look. On the nightstand sits a salt crystal lamp tucked into the far corner; a crumpled up piece of paper with some midnight memo that no one will ever read scribbled haphazardly across it; and no mug.
There is just enough time for Zishu to frown in confusion before she registers the gravity pulling her hips backwards and hears a muffled, struggling snort behind her, cueing her to something far more alarming - Kexing is still in bed. Her wife is as ceaseless as a worker bee, unable to do something as simple as lie in if Zishu isn't conscious to tempt her with other activities, and Zishu has long grown used to waking up to fresh-brewed coffee and the bustle of Kexing in the living room, resurrecting some project or another. She doesn't usually snore, either - her sleeping is silent as the grave, the only clue to her lifeforce the sweaty way that she clings to Zishu whenever she tries to roll over.
Kexing isn't clinging now, though. Zishu turns with all the grace that someone who is not a morning person and who has been deprived of caffeine can muster, wincing when Kexing is jostled, her next inhale an unpleasant grinding noise in the back of her throat. She sweeps the hair that has fallen over her wife's face back carefully, thumb brushing against the hot and damp skin of her forehead. Kexing's nose is red and shiny, her lips pouting even in rest, and as she tries to breathe in her eyelids flicker at the noise of her own struggle.
"Oh, dear, Lao Wen," Zishu murmurs. As if she can hear her, Kexing lets out a high, whistling whine. "It looks like you've made extra work for me today."
Zishu is not foolish enough to think that she can cook something appropriate for a sick person to eat. She fires off an order to the nearest open takeaway and sets about brewing coffee instead - a much more manageable task, although she does narrowly avoid sending hot water through an old, empty filter. After a few minutes on baidu with the first mug, brewed strong enough to kick her into gear, she follows this up with a cold cloth, a bowl of water, and a sliced orange. The fridge is packed high with fruit, and Zishu looks at it all in surprise before selecting the thing she remembers Jiuxiao asking for when he was a young boy, sticky fingers clamouring for care.
A groan from the bedrooms indicates that Kexing has begun to stir, and Zishu balances her acquired resources on her wrists and forearms, nudging the door open with her toe and bracing herself for battle.
Kexing awake looks far worse than Kexing asleep. The strap of her silk nightgown has fallen to one side and her hair clings to her temples and cheeks, which are worryingly rosy. Her mouth is open, unable to breath any other way, and the usual pout that has Zishu unable to look away from her cupid's bow is now wet and wobbling. She blinks once, slowly, and then again at Zishu, as if she's unable to believe what she's seeing.
"Z'shu...You're up," she mumbles. "I don't like it when I wake up and you're not here."
"How often does that happen?" Zishu says, coming to sit down beside her. She catches Kexing's wince when the change in weight bounces Kexing on the bed and sighs, pushing the plate of orange into her lap. "Eat this, you need the vitamin C."
"Breakfast in bed...? I'm so lucky..." Kexing says, and she might have been trying for flirtatious, but her smile is bleary and wet, and instead sounds sincere enough to make Zishu feel guilty. Kexing will coax her to wakefulness with cooked food more than once in a week, and Zishu has never offered this much gratitude.
Kexing sucks on the slices with heavy fingers, her lips mouthing clumsily at the fruit. It would be cute if it wasn't so pathetic, and Zishu finds little trouble in sitting by her side to ensure that she finishes the whole fruit, one hand resting against her clammy stomach. Between each slice, Kexing sniffs unattractively, and Zishu alternates between dabbing her nose with a tissue and wiping her forehead with a cloth.
"Nothing but bedrest for you today," she says sternly, and Kexing turns eyes so wide on her that Zishu has to look away. Her gaze is wet and affronted; as if Zishu has just asked her to run a marathon instead.
"Zishu..!" She says. "You know I hate bedrest."
"I know; that doesn't mean I care. If you carry on as usual you're just going to feel like shit for longer, and you'll probably get me, A-Xiang, and everyone in between sick too. Bed rest," she repeats. "I'll tie you to the bed if I have to."
"That doesn't sound so bad..."
Kexing's eyelids droop, looking at Zishu flirtatiously through her lashes. She arches her back, and Zishu can see the sheen of sweat on her clavicle that highlights the curve of the alcove between her pert breasts, her nipples peaked underneath the silk of her nightgown.
"There are other things we can do in bed besides rest..." Kexing tries. For a second, Zishu allows herself to be distracted. She leans into the magnetic pull of Kexing's presence, her own lips parting in the heat of Kexing's gaze...
...and is brought sharply back to reality by a sharp grip on her shoulders and the hacking cough that reverberates throughout the bedroom, Kexing's spine creasing with each spasm of her lungs.
"You..." Zishu shakes her head, cursing, and places a kiss on Kexing's forehead instead. "Why does a fever not reduce your capacity for mischief?"
"I'm unstoppable, A-Xu," Kexing croaks, but her smile doesn't meet her eyes. She looks miserable as she wipes the speck of phlegm from the corner of her mouth with a tissue. "I think you should leave...I don't want you to catch it."
"More like you don't want me to see you spit up like a baby," Zishu counters, and Kexing's flush grows hotter, pursing her lips at being seen through so thoroughly. "But it's me or A-Xiang; I won't leave you alone. Who would you rather have?"
Zishu asks this softly; she is prepared for Kexing to send her away. She has shown parts of herself in fits and spurts, even after the wedding, and each reveal has been followed by a hasty retreat. She watches Zishu accept the parts of herself she loathes with suspicion and incredulity, and Zishu waits, palm outstretched, for Kexing to settle once more in her lap and ready the next test. As responsible as Kexing feels for Gu Xiang and as strong as she needs to be for her, Gu Xiang has been around since long before the armour Kexing wears now was fully formed. Zishu knows how it can be easier to bare your wounds to one who was there when they were first inflicted.
Kexing is silent for a while. She closes her eyes, breathing in and out unsteadily, the creaking of her lungs prompting Zishu to rub circles into her wrist with her thumb. Their pulses mingle, Zishu's strong and even, Kexing's erratic and faint, and for a moment Zishu thinks that she has fallen asleep, until her eyes open again and she looks at Zishu, pupils blown, the whites of her eyes reddened.
"I want you," she says. Zishu does not probe her own sigh of relief; nods instead. "A-Xiang is loud and bossy. You're only one of those."
Zishu laughs.
"I ordered soup. I hope you're ready to eat soup for the next three days, minimum."
"You won't cook for me?"
"Do you want to die?" Zishu smiles when Kexing laughs, a crackling but real sound, and she uses the damp cloth to wipe Kexing's hair behind her ears. It isn't often that Zishu gets to see her without make up, and Kexing is too bleary to notice her staring at the faint split in the cartilage from where she broke her nose, or the scar that runs from the corner of her eye to her earlobe, usually artfully covered up. She stares until her vision grows hazy, a yellow-green aura creeping into the corner of her vision.
"What's wrong?" Kexing asks. Even in the throes of a fever, she is attuned to the slightest shift in Zishu's temperament. She shakes her head, trying to dispel her worry.
"Just a bit dizzy..." she says, and then jokes. "Am I catching it already? You need to stop breathing down my neck."
Kexing frowns, about to defend herself, until her eyes narrow.
"You made your own coffee today. Did you take your medication?"
Only then does Zishu remember the second part of her wake up routine - the pills conveniently placed beside the coffee mug, so small that she barely remembers taking them each morning with her first sip. It's been two hours since she should have taken them - no wonder the withdrawal has begun to set in. She pinches her temples, and her stomach twitches oddly as she lets out a quiet, breathy laugh.
Since when had she begun to rely so much on Kexing and her routines?
"A morning without me and you fall apart," Kexing jokes, and at Zishu's unsteady frown she pats a clammy palm against her cheek. "I'm kidding!"
"It's true, though," Zishu states plainly. "You'll have to make a new deal with the devil, so that you never get sick, or we'll both wither away in no time. Our poor son will find us, two skeletons in a feeble embrace."
"How romantic," Kexing coughs. "I like that you need me. I need it. If you'd die without my care, it means you'll keep me."
"Lao Wen..." Zishu begins, and Kexing sighs. She kisses Zishu on the mouth, dry lips and stale breath with just a hint of tart orange, and Zishu returns it, heedless of her wife's contagion.
"Hush now, I can say these things when I'm ill. You're not allowed to stop me."
"Only when you're ill," Zishu grumbles, and when Kexing pats the bed beside her, she climbs under the duvet to share her feverish warmth.
She'll take her medication when the soup arrives. Until then they can wither together: not quite skeletons, but locked in an embrace all the same.