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Their walk back to Siji Manor after the confrontation with Ye Baiyi is slow and quiet. One half of Wen Kexing’s face has gone numb, his lip is swollen, his back and sternum are throbbing with dull pain. He keeps one arm wrapped around Zhou Zishu, his fingers curled into several layers of Zhou Zishu’s robes. Wen Kexing is afraid of letting go of the fabric he can barely feel in between his clammy fingers, like uncurling his fingers or taking a single step away might make Zhou Zishu change his mind or give him the opportunity to vanish into thin air. Wen Kexing isn’t actually sure whether he’s helping Zhou Zishu and supporting him, or if Zhou Zishu can sense that Wen Kexing needs their closeness and is willing to stumble into one another with every other step they take.
They don’t talk as they walk. The silence feels intrusive, nauseating, it’s settling heavily onto Wen Kexing’s eardrums and ribs. The relief and elation he had felt when Ye Baiyi left and Zhou Zishu started laughing at him have long since made room for dread and fear. The reassurance of Zhou Zishu’s daring words spat right in the face of their senior, the calm acceptance in the face of Zhou Zishu’s bold act of protecting his junior and willingly giving up his own life in the process drain out of Wen Kexing with every step they take up the mountain towards the Manor—towards their home. Wen Kexing doesn’t know what to expect, if he’ll still be welcome, if he will be turned away at the doorstep regardless of Zhou Zishu’s previous sentiments. He wonders whether Zhou Zishu would be polite about it, plain and impenetrable, or if he’d revert back to the gruff and brusque attitude he gave Wen Kexing in the beginning, wonders if he’d allow Wen Kexing to say goodbye to Zhang Chengling.
The longer they walk and the closer they get to the Manor, the faster Wen Kexing’s whirlwind of a mind spirals into anguish. He doesn’t dare to believe in Zhou Zishu’s earlier words anymore, berates himself for falling for them so easily right away, for not being cautious. Growing close to Zhou Zishu has made him careless. It can’t be that easy. Zhou Zishu cannot simply accept him, just like this. Zhou Zishu, coldblooded murderer and brilliant strategist, mastermind of a house of assassins, has acquired a conscience, has accepted the consequences of his actions, has admitted his wrongdoings and owned up to them. He’s stepped into his role as the leader of Siji Manor and has flourished with Zhang Chengling as his disciple. He is building an honest life around everything he has left.
Wen Kexing, with his bloody, selfish secrecy, doesn’t fit into that.
Should Zhou Zishu give him the chance to explain himself, Wen Kexing doesn’t know if he should start by apologizing for being the Guigu chief, or for keeping it a secret. He doesn’t know if he should try and explain how he got into Guigu or why he needed to get out. He doesn’t know if he should beg and grovel the moment Zhou Zishu acknowledges what happened or if he should take Zhou Zishu’s rejection the way he’s learned to handle all dire circumstances over time, with a straight spine and the glint of madness in his eyes.
They enter the grove of plum trees leading up to the Manor and Wen Kexing’s grip on Zhou Zishu tightens. For a long moment, he wishes for nothing more than to continue walking indefinitely through the night like this, limping but pressed up against Zhou Zishu’s side, body numb in several places but Zhou Zishu’s warmth, his qi and steady heartbeat burning into Wen Kexing’s being. The whetted blade of being turned away from Siji Manor and Zhou Zishu’s life would still dangle dangerously above him but those few prolonged moments of merely being together would be immensely precious.
But wishing and hoping doesn’t work. It has never done Wen Kexing any good. Their walk will come to an end, as will their connection and contact, as will any mercy for the rest of the world outside Siji Manor that Wen Kexing might have managed to find in himself. It will end as soon as they reach home—Zhou Zishu’s home. As much as Wen Kexing had wished for it, he realizes it never truly was his home, neither when he was a child nor during these past few days that already feel like a whole lifetime ago. He’s living on borrowed time and it’s running out quickly. It was true before he put his plan into motion, and it is true now.
Wen Kexing tries to gather his bearings in the midst of his growing panic. The moonlight illuminates their surroundings just enough for the gate of the Manor to come into view through the sparse foliage at the edge of the grove. Wen Kexing’s eyes are glued to it as he tries to strengthen his resolve. He will lead Zhou Zishu to the gate up ahead and take his rejection calmly. He’s sure Zhou Zishu would think it appropriate to be polite, maybe even kind about his rejection, simply due to their companionship, all the times Wen Kexing has tried to be useful and has come to his aid. He might even thank Wen Kexing before sending him away, might wish him well in his endeavors, might warn him of Zhou Zishu’s future allegiances. He might think it softens the blow, but Wen Kexing knows that anything other than a punch aimed at his jaw or a blade held to his jugular will split his sternum and force open his ribcage for his guts and lungs and heart to spill out in front of Zhou Zishu. He’s terrified of being opened up like that, of being vulnerable and helpless. He’s terrified of Zhou Zishu’s gentle ruthlessness.
This affection, this fondness he harbors for Zhou Zishu crept in at first like fingers tightening around his neck, slowly increasing their pressure until Wen Kexing had trouble breathing. But then the hand around his throat stopped constricting his airways and held a dagger instead, plunged it into his chest, pierced his lungs, stabbed through his heart. It happened all at once, its effect immediate, with no chance of recovery. He feels its sting all the time, the way the edge of the blade catches on the tissue with every one of Zhou Zishu’s smiles and cuts deeper with his touches. He feels the warm blood trickling from the wound with every beat of his heart, every breath he takes, the expansion and contraction of the muscles forcing the blade even deeper into himself. He’s bleeding, steadily and silently, his body weeping its own kind of tears, the only kind he truly knows.
He wonders how Zhou Zishu would react to this kind of revelation. If presented with Wen Kexing’s organs in front of him, only held together by their need to keep that dagger lodged into them, would he want to twist the blade, loosen it within the flesh so it can wreak more havoc, or would he simply pull it out clean, to end both of their agony, to watch the fountain of all of Wen Kexing’s feelings gush out of his chest and bleed him dry?
Wen Kexing doesn’t know but he decides he will take whichever alternative Zhou Zishu chooses. He owes his soulmate that much. As Zhou Zishu accepted the nails did Wen Kexing accept the knife, and if Zhou Zishu decides to accept the weight of the dagger’s handle in his hand then it’s Wen Kexing’s choice to accept the consequences, to stand vulnerable in front of this man, to offer Zhou Zishu his bleeding heart and emptying lungs and fragile neck, willingly, resolutely.
The gate looks intimidating in its steady stillness as they walk up to it. Had Wen Kexing not learned to control his body during stressful moments, his hands would be visibly trembling. Zhou Zishu doesn’t let them slow down and raises up his good arm to try and open the gate. Something heavy settles onto Wen Kexing’s chest, tense and burning, constricting his throat and making his breathing grow shallow. He has the insane idea that he could run, could end it himself before Zhou Zishu gets the chance to, that he could hide before it truly ends, drag it out and refuse Zhou Zishu the choice to put an end to it. He wants to turn back time to when he could face Ye Baiyi before Zhou Zishu got to their senior, to when Zhou Zishu didn’t know about Wen Kexing being Zhen Yan, to when Wen Kexing could still die instead of become the Guigu chief, to when Zhen Yan could die alongside his parents.
Zhou Zishu grunts. “Help me,” he demands as the wood doesn’t budge under his single hand, his voice reflecting the mix of his indignation and pouting. Wen Kexing’s face pulls into the memory of a smile at the sound of it. His body separates from Zhou Zishu’s of its own accord so he can deal with the stubborn gate and open it.
Wen Kexing feels cold once he’s done, the path into the Manor open and invitingly laid out in front of them but his body missing the immediate presence of Zhou Zishu. He feels useless now that he isn’t holding onto Zhou Zishu anymore. He should go, turn away now that he has the chance, shouldn’t burden Zhou Zishu with the decision of how to deal with Wen Kexing, with his excuses and explanations and apologies and feelings. He should take what’s left of himself and use it to stoke the fire that will burn down everything except the very mountain they stand on.
“Come on,” Zhou Zishu says impatiently, already a few steps ahead. He turns back to where Wen Kexing is standing motionlessly. “We need to try and be quiet. I don’t want to have to explain anything to Chengling right now.” Then he turns again and walks further into the compound, either not aware of or uncaring about Wen Kexing’s inner turmoil.
It takes a moment for Wen Kexing to catch up with what’s happening. Or with the lack of what he expected to happen. He’s stumped at how Zhou Zishu obviously expects him to follow without a care. Steeling himself, he steps over the threshold of the gate, fully expecting for something to happen, for Zhou Zishu to change his mind right this moment, for the buildings of the Manor all to collapse one by one, for himself to spontaneously combust.
None of that happens. It’s jarring, the courtyard quietly lying before him, every tree and statue still in their original place, just the way he left it behind. He didn’t think he would be alive to return when he left, and when he didn’t die, he still thought he wouldn’t even get a single glimpse of it again. Now he’s standing here, before the full splendor of the Manor bathed in the pale light of the moon, at a loss for what to do with himself.
“Wen Kexing,” Zhou Zishu hisses, the sound of his voice the only thing breaking through the stillness of the courtyard. “Did Ye qianbei break your legs but you’ve been keeping it a secret?”
Wen Kexing startles into motion and hurries to catch up to Zhou Zishu. “Like the old toad could break my legs,” he retorts out of principle before his brain allows him to take the offer to address the issue clouding his mind, his voice breathless and shaky. His bruised face and sternum throb. “He’ll get kicked in the face if he tries.”
That elicits a snort from Zhou Zishu. They’re walking towards their sleeping quarters, Wen Kexing notices. He’s not surprised, mainly because he forbade himself from feeling that way after entering the Manor, no matter what Zhou Zishu was going to do.
They stop at the room Zhou Zishu assigned his disciple, Wen Kexing coming to a halt a respectful three steps away. Zhou Zishu quietly opens the door and peeks inside. Wen Kexing doesn’t crowd next to him to get a glimpse, feels like he’s not allowed to.
“He’s sleeping,” Zhou Zishu whispers and sounds relieved. Wen Kexing doesn’t know if it’s relief or disappointment settling in his belly, but he manages a small smile as Zhou Zishu steps back and slowly closes the door.
“He’s a good kid,” Wen Kexing says, voice low and raspy.
Zhou Zishu’s eyes find his and there’s nothing but warmth and kindness and exhaustion in them. “He is.”
Wen Kexing feels uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. “Let me take a look at your shoulder?” he asks. It’s an attempt at deflection, but at the same time he hopes Zhou Zishu will allow him this much, to make sure he is fine before Wen Kexing has to leave. “Let me clean you up.”
Zhou Zishu merely nods his assent. Wen Kexing doesn’t know whether he should worry about the complete lack of protest. They make their way to Zhou Zishu’s room and this time Wen Kexing does crowd his way towards the door so he can open it for Zhou Zishu. He almost gasps as Zhou Zishu slips past him into the room, the warmth of his body carelessly brushing against Wen Kexing. It takes a moment for Wen Kexing to blink away his stupor from the sudden closeness and to step into the chilled room, darkness covering them like a shroud once he closes the door behind himself.
While Zhou Zishu busies himself with lighting candles, Wen Kexing walks over to the basin of water that Zhang Chengling put in place for Zhou Zishu to clean up as he does every night.
“Sit down,” Wen Kexing instructs softly, grabs a washcloth and lifts the basin. As he walks over to the bed, he watches Zhou Zishu untie his sash and struggle to get his injured arm out of the sleeve. Wen Kexing’s grip on the basin tightens. “Let me help you with that.”
Zhou Zishu stops trying to pull back the layers of clothing from his shoulder and watches with clear eyes as Wen Kexing carefully sets the basin down next to his feet and sits a short distance away from him on the edge of the bed. Wen Kexing feels hot under Zhou Zishu’s open gaze. He keeps his eyes glued to Zhou Zishu’s robes and makes sure he only uses his fingertips to touch the fabric, tries his hardest to not graze Zhou Zishu’s skin. Gently, he removes layer after layer and is vividly reminded of the night he did the same thing to take care of the wound Zhou Zishu sustained from a drug man. He remembers how he’d put his lips onto Zhou Zishu’s hot skin, how Zhou Zishu had smelled of sweat and grime and alcohol, how he’d twitched under Wen Kexing’s touch despite his qi being blocked.
That night feels like a different Wen Kexing from a different lifetime. Zhou Zishu had not been the only one to shed his mask since then.
“I’ll have to touch your shoulder to assess the damage,” Wen Kexing whispers apologetically. He doesn’t dare speak any louder. A part of him wishes Zhou Zishu would not allow the touches, tell him he can do it himself, bark orders to leave him alone. “Tell me if it hurts.”
“Just do it,” Zhou Zishu tells him. Wen Kexing nods to himself. He reaches out with careful fingers and half expects it to burn when they connect to Zhou Zishu’s skin, but it feels nothing but smooth and warm and solid under his fingertips. Wen Kexing presses into the muscle stretching over the rounded part of the shoulder and Zhou Zishu hisses in pain. Wen Kexing hums and waits for a moment before he traces the tense muscle down Zhou Zishu’s arm, avoiding the skin where it’s already turning dark blue and purple. He repeats the same action reaching from the top of the shoulder to the back of Zhou Zishu’s neck and down his shoulder blade, then along his collarbone, always stilling when Zhou Zishu mewls or twitches in pain before moving on.
He tries not to pay attention to all the scars littering Zhou Zishu’s back and shoulders or make any assumptions about how Zhou Zishu might have acquired them. The nail wound below Zhou Zishu’s collarbone is closed and scabbed over, and Wen Kexing is especially mindful of it. He doesn’t want to find out how Zhou Zishu will react if he touches it. The way Zhou Zishu’s shoulder is bony and covered with barely more than stringy, tight muscles worries Wen Kexing, as do Zhou Zishu’s collarbones and the bumps of his spine that jut out starkly.
“Does it hurt too much?” Wen Kexing asks quietly and only receives a grunt and a tiny shake of Zhou Zishu’s head in response. “Then I’ll try to move the joint now.”
Another grunt and Wen Kexing grips Zhou Zishu’s upper arm tightly with one hand, his other stabilizing the top of the shoulder and feeling the outlines of the joint. He moves Zhou Zishu’s arm up and down and in circles, straightens it out in all directions and brings it across Zhou Zishu’s chest. He does it slowly, mindful of when Zhou Zishu hisses or grimaces in pain.
“This might be a bit more uncomfortable,” he warns as he reaches underneath Zhou Zishu’s arm and digs his fingers into the armpit to feel for potential injuries there. It’s entirely unnecessary, he realizes one moment later. He’s stalling, trying to drag out the time he’s allowed to be close to Zhou Zishu and feel his skin. As scared as he was at first to touch, he’s scared of losing the contact now. It’s pointless. He pulls his hands back swiftly.
“What’s the assessment?” Zhou Zishu asks after a moment of silence. Wen Kexing feels useless. “How bad is it?”
Wen Kexing pulls the layers of robes back over Zhou Zishu’s shoulder mechanically. “The joint itself doesn’t seem to be damaged, it’s mobile in all directions. The area is bruised pretty badly but the bones all seem fine. None of the muscles appear to have sustained major tears, otherwise you would not have been fine with the pressure and movement,” he rattles off. “I’d suggest keeping it still and resting for a couple of days. If it’s swollen when you get up in the morning, apply something cooling. There might also be some herbal remedies you can apply to help with the pain and bruising.” He runs out of steam as he puts the last layer in place.
“Alright, thank you,” Zhou Zishu says sincerely and turns to look at Wen Kexing. There’s a smile on his face and the candlelight twinkles in his eyes. “I trust Wen yisheng’s opinion and his care.”
Wen Kexing ducks his head and slips from the bed to kneel in front of Zhou Zishu. He curses himself for not being able to fully control the tremble of his fingers as he reaches for the washcloth he hung over the edge of the basin. “Let me just clean up your face,” he says as he soaks the cloth in the cold water and wrings it out, his fingers barely possessing enough strength. He doesn’t dare to look Zhou Zishu in the eyes as he lifts up on his knees and reaches for Zhou Zishu’s face. The look of calm he’s met with shakes him.
“I’ll go and make a sling for your arm,” Wen Kexing says as he wipes at Zhou Zishu’s forehead and cheeks and then dabs at the corners of his mouth, across his lips, under his nose. He needs to fill the silence somehow, needs to give himself and Zhou Zishu something to think about. He might just bolt otherwise. “That should help with keeping your shoulder steady during the next few days.”
Zhou Zishu hums thoughtfully. “You can do it tomorrow,” he replies. “It’s late, it won’t be of much use now.”
Wen Kexing sits back on his heels and soaks the cloth again, watches the remnants of blood swirl in the water. Tomorrow. He’ll get until tomorrow.
“Give me that cloth,” Zhou Zishu commands gently. “And come up here. It’s my turn to clean your face.”
Obediently, Wen Kexing washes the cloth until most of the blood stains are gone and wrings it once more. But instead of handing it to Zhou Zishu’s expectant hand, Wen Kexing’s fingers curl into the fabric and his hands come to rest on his lap, uncaring of the cool, damp stain forming on his thigh. He holds his breath for a moment, staring at Zhou Zishu’s feet and the muddy hem of his robe, trying to gather what’s left of him.
“I’m sorry,” he manages after a few heartbeats, his voice nothing more than a breathless whimper. “I’m sorry, Ah-Xu.” He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to use this form of address, but he has to say it, has to say this name, even if it’s the last time he gets to do it.
“What for?” Zhou Zishu asks. He sounds calm, steady. It’s not an impatient tell me what you did wrong so I can give you your punishment and hold it over you for the rest of my life but an I know and an I don’t need you to apologize and a tell me what weighs you down.
Wen Kexing squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes out until his lungs are empty and aching. “I’m sorry I’m a monster,” he says into the quiet. The weight of betraying Zhou Zishu’s trust is crashing over him like waves. He can’t breathe in again but he presses the words out anyway. “And I didn’t even tell you.”
A beat of silence passes, settles uncomfortably onto Wen Kexing’s eardrums and shoulders, but he can hear the smile in Zhou Zishu’s voice when he finally answers. “Fortunately, I know how to recognize monsters and how to deal with them,” Zhou Zishu says evenly. “Fortunately, none of that was necessary with you.”
Wen Kexing shakes his head adamantly. His eyes burn but they don’t tear up. He’s bleeding and bleeding and bleeding out, right in front of Zhou Zishu. His intake of breath burns in his lungs. “Why am I still here?” he demands hoarsely.
“Because you belong here,” Zhou Zishu answers without missing a beat. “Whether you want to acknowledge your relation to Siji Manor or not, you will always have a place here.” Wen Kexing’s breath hitches, his lungs convulsing, his heart squeezing around the dagger. “I will always make sure you have a place here.”
Wen Kexing didn’t know he had this much blood left to give. “But the Manor—I’m the Guigu guzhu!” Admitting it out loud like this in front of Zhou Zishu feels like ripping open a festering wound, feels like an assault, like an avalanche. Wen Kexing’s jaw aches from the pressure of it. There’s blood spewing from his heart and soaking their clothes and pooling at their feet. He feels the desperate need to beg. “I can’t taint the Manor’s name and stomp its reputation into the ground, I don’t want to ruin everything you and shif—Qin qianbei have built.”
There are hands on his face, his cheek and chin, tilting it up so he’s forced to look at Zhou Zishu. “Did you not listen?” Zhou Zishu asks insistently. “Did you not hear a single word I said to the old toad? I meant it, I meant it all.”
Wen Kexing is at a loss. Zhou Zishu’s eyes are wide and bright and stare directly into Wen Kexing’s soul. Wordlessly, he stares up at Zhou Zishu.
“You’re really bad at hiding your secrets from me, you know that?” Zhou Zishu teases and strokes a gentle finger over Wen Kexing’s cheek. His tender touch is at complete odds with the playful tone of his voice and Wen Kexing’s natural instinct is to splutter with indignation. He can feel embarrassment flooding in, but Zhou Zishu doesn’t let go of him, doesn’t give him the chance to retaliate or laugh it off or hide. Wen Kexing blinks and the smile is gone from Zhou Zishu’s, his expression turning serious. “I didn’t realize that I should’ve told you I figured it out. It could have saved us some trouble, hm?”
“I—” Wen Kexing starts but he realizes he doesn’t know what to say.
“I thought you knew,” Zhou Zishu continues. “You were being obvious sometimes and I thought you wanted me to figure it out so you wouldn’t have to tell me yourself.”
A dull ache creeps into Wen Kexing’s knees and he uses it to anchor himself to this moment, takes it as a reminder that he really has a body, is really here, that Zhou Zishu is holding his face and looking at him with tenderness and saying gentle words. It’s hard to believe.
“I didn’t realize you were so miserable,” Zhou Zishu says with a dejected smile. “I’m sorry. I thought I needed to give you time and I wanted to respect your privacy. But instead I ignored that you were suffering.” He rubs his thumb under Wen Kexing’s eye. “I regret that. I apologize.”
Wen Kexing doesn’t understand what’s happening. He should be the one apologizing, begging for forgiveness. Zhou Zishu did nothing wrong, why is he apologizing?
“What,” Wen Kexing starts, unsure of how to express his thoughts and confusion. “How—why are you apologizing?” There’s sorrow in Zhou Zishu’s expression and the only thing Wen Kexing knows is that he put it there. He doesn’t understand. “Why are you apologizing to me? Of all people?”
“I didn’t say anything because I was scared you would run away again,” Zhou Zishu explains patiently. “And maybe for good this time. I know you know me, more than anyone else does in this world, but I wasn’t sure whether you trusted me.” Wen Kexing’s chest constricts. His lungs burn with every breath as they slowly fill with blood. “So I wanted to let you take your time and show you that you can trust me, and that I do trust you, and that I want to know you too. I didn’t realize you needed more than that.”
“I—” Wen Kexing tries but Zhou Zishu interrupts him with a shake of his head. He leans forward so he’s even closer to Wen Kexing’s face, his fingers still soft and soothing on Wen Kexing’s skin.
“So I’m telling you now, please listen to me,” he starts. “I know you are Zhen Yan. I know you are the Guigu guzhu. Everything I said to Ye qianbei is true.” He takes a steady breath while Wen Kexing feels breathless. “I choose to be on your side. Shifu too, he would welcome you with open arms and do his utmost to protect you. I will not turn on you, I would never turn on you.” Zhou Zishu smiles. This time it’s a bright smile, a gentle, tender one. “Neither in front of the entire jianghu nor in front of just you alone.”
Wen Kexing’s mind is reeling. This is the one outcome of the situation he hadn’t allowed himself to entertain in the midst of his wishful thinking, and now he’s entirely unprepared as to how to deal with it. He was scared of Zhou Zishu finding out about him being the chief. Ever since it was revealed that Wen Kexing was that pitiful boy Qin Huaizhang took in all those years back, he’s been afraid of Zhou Zishu inquiring further, asking about what happened to that boy, where he disappeared to, why he didn’t come back, why he’d reappeared now. Zhen Yan is inextricably connected to Wen Kexing, to the Guigu chief. It was silly to hope Long Que shedding light on what happened twenty years ago would not also bring up other things.
But now it’s out in the open. Zhou Zishu accepts him. Zhou Zishu accepts Wen Kexing being the chief. The way he’d treated him all this time, all these days at the Manor, was how he treated not just his junior and his soulmate, but the chief.
“You,” Wen Kexing starts, unsure but finally willing to let that bud of hope bloom in his chest, drenched in blood but not yet suffocated, “you don’t—mind? You’re not—”
“I know you,” Zhou Zishu interrupts decidedly. He still has his hands on Wen Kexing’s face and uses them to lead Wen Kexing even closer to himself so he can touch their foreheads together. “I mind. The way you mind that I was the leader of Tian Chuang. But I know you.”
He says it like it’s enough. And maybe it is, at least for him, at least for now.
Wen Kexing takes a deep breath, breathes in Zhou Zishu’s scent, dark and musky, mixed with the smell of sweat and blood. “So you mean,” he says slowly, trying to allow himself to hope and not to be terrified of it, “you mean I just need to be more courageous when it comes to you.”
“I mean you can trust me,” Zhou Zishu whispers.
“You really would’ve died for me today?” Wen Kexing asks, breathless and scared. Scared not of Zhou Zishu’s answer but the very real, very frightening prospect of Zhou Zishu not being alive.
“Or any other day,” Zhou Zishu answers steadily.
Wen Kexing’s lips tremble and then pull into a brilliant smile. “Ah-Xu,” he says, and he means it.
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu echoes the sentiment. Wen Kexing takes another breath, feels much calmer than he has all night since he left the Manor to die, and then decides it’s time he pulled out that dagger from his chest. It’s time to take it out in one swift move and be done with it so he can finally bleed dry. He separates their faces just enough so he can lean in at another angle and press their lips together for the duration of a heartbeat.
Zhou Zishu makes a tiny, surprised sound as their lips part again. “So you have finally made up your mind?”
Wen Kexing smiles apologetically and leans back as far as Zhou Zishu’s hold on him will allow. He drops the washcloth to the side as he reaches up so one of his hands can encircle Zhou Zishu’s wrist, the other coming up to cradle Zhou Zishu’s face.
He knows that Zhou Zishu has opened up to him further the more time they have spent together. He knows that Zhou Zishu isn’t as averse to Wen Kexing’s advances as he still likes to pretend sometimes. Wen Kexing knows that Zhou Zishu has developed an interest in him, one that goes beyond simple companionship or their bond as soulmates. There have been instances when Zhou Zishu has been all too inviting, has steered Wen Kexing into a very clear direction, has not shied away from moments laden with a heavy atmosphere, has done everything except take the initiative himself.
Wen Kexing knows, and it terrified him to no end. He’d let all those moments and opportunities pass by or actively pulled away, made a flirtatious joke or recited poetry to diffuse the tension and hoped that Zhou Zishu wouldn’t be too hurt to pull away or too frustrated to press the matter and demand answers.
They could’ve kissed that first time they sat on a roof drinking and marveling at the moon, Wen Kexing could have crowded Zhou Zishu against a wall in the privacy of one of their rooms in an inn. He’d almost given into his elation after they’d escaped the horde of drug men at the Long Yuan Pavilion. When he’d awoken after his confrontation with Shen Shen, it had looked like Zhou Zishu might have almost done the same. And there were so many instances during the past couple days at the Manor that made Wen Kexing’s chest ache, that made him wish he could have this for real, that he could live at the Manor, that his plan of revenge and destruction wouldn’t matter, that Zhou Zishu’s health wasn’t deteriorating at an alarming speed.
He’d come to the conclusion that he not only didn’t deserve Zhou Zishu because of his existence as the Guigu chief, a murderer, a child who’d led his own parents to their deaths, but for the simple fact that it looked like he’d been leading Zhou Zishu on all this time. But he knew that giving into his desires would have wreaked even more destruction, that allowing this sort of intimacy without being entirely truthful would only sow hurt and agony. He would have betrayed Zhou Zishu’s trust and taken advantage of him. Wen Kexing had not been willing to do that.
He was prepared to take what he could have, and he was sure having Zhou Zishu as a lover was not something he could ever have. He had never lied with his flirting and affection and care, but it was easy to use it to barrel his way closer to Zhou Zishu and simultaneously hide from him.
“Yes,” he answers quietly and sees the glint in Zhou Zishu’s eyes. Wen Kexing knows what he wants and he’s almost certain that he can have it now, that it’s attainable, within his reach, that he won’t get punished for wanting and dreaming. “Doesn’t Ah-Xu know it?”
Zhou Zishu snorts good-naturedly. “I thought I’d known for a while now.”
Wen Kexing bites back the need to apologize. “And my Ah-Xu was right,” he whispers instead. “How could he not be, when he’s so beautiful and smart and trusting.”
Zhou Zishu pulls him in for another kiss, a longer one this time, one that’s more than just a dry press of lips. It’s overwhelming to Wen Kexing, it’s not enough for his greedy tongue. It’s molten, searing, trickling down his throat and swishing in his lungs, tingling right underneath his skin. The blood still smeared on his lips tastes metallic and tangy and Wen Kexing wishes he could taste Zhou Zishu’s as well, could lick it off his lips and suck it from his tongue and swallow it down and carry it inside him.
He pulls back and stares at Zhou Zishu in wonder, reverent and unguarded. There’s all that blood pounding in his ears, coating his hands, soaking his very soul. He never believed he could ever end up like this, on his knees in front of Zhou Zishu, holding onto him, kissing him.
When he’d only just met Zhou Zishu and started following him, Zhou Zishu had understandably not allowed any actual close relationship with a man who’d been annoying and the opposite of trustworthy. Wen Kexing had been content to not push the matter and accept their companionship, especially because he’d figured he could keep his secrets buried this way. But then he’d realized that Zhou Zishu truly is his senior, he’d learned about the nails and Zhou Zishu’s impending death, and Wen Kexing had grown desperate. His superficial flirting had become more honest, had turned into sincere care, had made him reevaluate his revenge plan. Before, he’d been happy to set the world on fire and burn along with it, but then he’d wanted nothing more than to find a way to cure Zhou Zishu and keep him away from all the destruction Wen Kexing couldn’t stop anymore even if he wanted to.
And he never wanted to. He knew his days were numbered and that there was no way of getting out of it. He’d made his choices and he resolved to live with the consequences, which meant he could not have Zhou Zishu the way he wanted but could not be truthful with him for fear of being cast away entirely.
He wishes he could’ve seen the truth for what it was. Zhou Zishu was right, Wen Kexing knows him, had known him, but he’d not been willing to trust him.
“We’ve wasted a lot of time, hm?” Zhou Zishu asks, the puff of his warm breath hitting Wen Kexing’s lips. He smiles with his eyes closed, a small, bitter thing. “I’m sorry.”
Wen Kexing lifts up on his knees so he doesn’t have to pull Zhou Zishu down any farther and presses his lips to Zhou Zishu’s closed eyelids, to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, along his jaw. He doesn’t know what to say, what he can say to make it feel less harsh. Neither of them knows how much time they still have to spend together. It makes a desperate little thing try and scratch its way free from inside Wen Kexing’s ribcage.
“But we figured it out,” he mumbles against Zhou Zishu’s cheek. “We will figure it out.” It sounds hopeful and entirely too optimistic. But now that Wen Kexing gets to have this, gets to have Zhou Zishu, he will not let go until death drags him away with its poisonous claws. Now that he knows Zhou Zishu accepts him and wants him, Wen Kexing vows to make the most of what they have left.
“Give me that washcloth,” Zhou Zishu says and lets go of Wen Kexing. He holds out his hand like he did before, but Wen Kexing grins and shakes his head.
“I got blood on you,” he says and dunks the cloth back into the basin to soak it once more. “Let me wipe your face. You don’t like blood on you.”
Zhou Zishu looks at him as Wen Kexing wrings out the cloth and then leans up on his knees to dab at Zhou Zishu’s skin. This time, Wen Kexing doesn’t try to hide from Zhou Zishu’s gaze, doesn’t feel the need to turn away his face or bow down so he can hide and beg. Zhou Zishu’s eyes aren’t searching, merely looking.
“Now let me finally clean you up, you menace,” Zhou Zishu complains once Wen Kexing gives his face a cursory glance and deems his work done. “I will not kiss you again with all that blood on your face.”
Wen Kexing smiles softly. “My Ah-Xu, please come to my rescue then,” he asks, only half joking. He hands the freshly soaked cloth to Zhou Zishu and lets his head be pulled into position. Zhou Zishu is not particularly gentle with his rubbing and dabbing, but Wen Kexing only flinches minutely when his bruises are aggravated, way too busy studying Zhou Zishu’s concentrated face.
He remembers Zhou Zishu’s face from that rainy night in Yueyang, his eyes filled with tears and his expression an amalgamation of fury, hurt and regret. Then getting to know you was pointless, his words ring in Wen Kexing’s ears, stinging and harsh. Wen Kexing, caught up in his own hurt and regret, had agreed back then, had tried to bury any affection he’d had, had tried to remove the dagger and stop the bleeding, had already mourned the time they hadn’t even yet spent together. But now, looking at the edges of Zhou Zishu’s features and the softness in his eyes, Wen Kexing knows for sure that it was not pointless at all. All of this, all of their time together was worth it. Even if they spent a lot of time dancing around each other, with Wen Kexing being scared and Zhou Zishu being respectful, even if he can’t save Zhou Zishu in the end and this is all the time they get together, he won’t regret anything. Any and all time he gets to spend with his soulmate is good, blissful.
When Wen Kexing’s time comes, he’ll carve out this space for Zhou Zishu and protect it, soak it in all the blood he’s got left so it won’t burn.
“Better,” Zhou Zishu judges and flings the cloth back into the basin with a plop. “Maybe you should also cool your bruises tomorrow, or apply one of the salves.” He grins playfully. “I can make a sling for your mouth, maybe it will help if you’re not constantly chattering my ear off.”
Wen Kexing pouts up at Zhou Zishu. “The only remedy I need is Ah-Xu’s kisses,” he declares. Zhou Zishu’s grin turns gentle and tender and suddenly Wen Kexing can’t breathe, his throat constricting as he realizes that he has never been bleeding all on his own.
“Then come up here,” Zhou Zishu interrupts Wen Kexing’s epiphany. He reaches out with both hands, but he does it too quickly and flinches at the pinch of pain in his shoulder.
“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing fusses immediately. He hurriedly gets to his feet and ignores the way his knees pop and ache. There’s nothing he can do to alleviate Zhou Zishu’s pain, but he still takes Zhou Zishu’s hand and squeezes his fingers.
“It’s fine,” Zhou Zishu says placatingly after a moment and gives Wen Kexing a smile, “just come here.” He pulls Wen Kexing to sit on the bed with his good arm. Wen Kexing follows willingly and lets himself be dragged even closer.
It’s easy to fall into Zhou Zishu and the way he kisses Wen Kexing. He’s insistent but not greedy, searching but not hasty. Their lips glide together comfortably, the pressure hot, their closeness dizzying. Zhou Zishu doesn’t try to overpower Wen Kexing and lets him lick into his mouth, opens his lips with an airy mewl and then closes them around Wen Kexing’s tongue which is equally as insistent, equally as searching.
One of Zhou Zishu’s hands comes up to cradle the side of Wen Kexing’s face and rub the pads of his fingers against Wen Kexing’s temple, the shell of his ear, the hinge of his jaw. Unlike their kiss, his touches feel timid. Wen Kexing brings his own hands up to cup around Zhou Zishu’s neck and jaw and hold him. He’s not trying to hold him in place or guide his movements, he’s merely holding what he loves even closer to himself.
Zhou Zishu’s hand strokes its way down Wen Kexing’s neck with a smooth caress. It feels like he tries to get his fingers underneath Wen Kexing’s clothes, but the neck of the robes is too tight for his fumbling to work and so his fingers only curl tightly into the topmost layer. Wen Kexing’s lips pull into a smile against Zhou Zishu’s mouth.
“Ah-Xu,” he mumbles into their kiss. “My Ah-Xu.”
Bone-deep exhaustion washes over him suddenly. Blunt pain pulls through his side and back, reminding him that Zhou Zishu is not the only one who was met with the force of Ye Baiyi’s broad sword and fury. He slows their kiss until they break apart naturally, but he can’t lean back, can’t open his eyes, and he sways where he’s sitting.
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu rasps and uses his grip on Wen Kexing’s robe to guide his body closer. Wen Kexing slumps down and ignores the way the muscles in his back protest the movement. He leans his forehead into Zhou Zishu’s neck and breathes in deeply. It feels good to be held, feels warm, feels safe with Zhou Zishu’s arm slung across Wen Kexing’s back.
“It’s late,” Wen Kexing slurs into Zhou Zishu’s haphazardly closed neckline. “Let me help you undress.” He doesn’t move.
“Did Ye qianbei injure you severely?” Zhou Zishu asks, his voice calm and quiet but Wen Kexing hears the worried edge in it anyway.
“Nothing broken, just bruised,” Wen Kexing mumbles. Leaning into Zhou Zishu like this and having him speak softly into Wen Kexing’s ear is quickly becoming one of his favorite things.
“Maybe you need that sling after all,” Zhou Zishu chuckles.
“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing whines. It takes a lot of willpower for him to sit back up, carry his own weight and lean into where his body is aching, but once he does, he gives Zhou Zishu his best pout. Zhou Zishu smiles at him, his teeth on display and his skin around his eyes crinkled and Wen Kexing feels warmth expand within his ribcage.
“It is late,” Wen Kexing repeats with a sigh and straightens his spine. “Let me help you.”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t object when Wen Kexing reaches out and starts to undo Zhou Zishu’s loosely tied sash again. Wen Kexing helps Zhou Zishu stand and undress, meticulously working around Zhou Zishu’s banged up shoulder, until only the thin layer of his undergarments is left. Wen Kexing puts the basin back into its original spot and then balls up the dirtied layers of Zhou Zishu’s robe carelessly and deposits them right next to it.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks as he turns back to Zhou Zishu, who has sat back down on the edge of his bed. “Do you want me to bring you some tea? You shouldn’t be drinking wine, it won’t do well with the swelling.”
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu says, suddenly alarmed and anguished but apparently unable to express it properly.
Wen Kexing smiles, gentle, grateful. “I’m not running away,” he says evenly and watches Zhou Zishu’s shoulders drop in relief. “We have time, Ah-Xu.” It sounds more like a question than Wen Kexing had intended.
“Yes,” Zhou Zishu agrees after a moment of silence. “We have time.” Wen Kexing believes him, if just for this moment.
“I’ll go and change out of these rags,” Wen Kexing says and aims for a light tone, something playful, something soothing, something that will help them believe that he will always come back and Zhou Zishu will always be here waiting and that it will be enough. “And I’ll bring you tea.”
“Sleep here tonight,” Zhou Zishu asks. He looks almost helpless but his voice is clear.
Wen Kexing smiles at him, bright and wide. “Whatever my Ah-Xu desires,” he promises. On his way to the kitchen, he can’t help himself but make a detour to Zhang Chengling’s room. It doesn’t feel anymore like he’s not allowed to see their silly boy or look after him, and Wen Kexing needs to see with his own eyes that Zhang Chengling is still here, still breathing, still so young and so alive.
He finds Zhang Chengling soundly asleep, laying on his side with his face nestled into the crook of his own elbow. It’s a reassuring sight, a soothing one. Wen Kexing sighs soundlessly before he closes the door and makes his way to the kitchen.
Zhou Zishu hasn’t moved from where he was sitting when Wen Kexing returns, only clad in his undergarments and a tray with a pot of tea and cups in hand. He smiles, a tiny, sincere thing that looks good on his face, and watches as Wen Kexing puts down the tray and pours the tea.
“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing murmurs as he hands Zhou Zishu his cup.
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu replies. He raises the cup to his face and hides his smile behind it and downs it only when Wen Kexing has his ready as well. The heat burns down Wen Kexing’s throat.
“It’s late,” Zhou Zishu says and hands the cup back to Wen Kexing, refusing another one. His expression turns even more tender. “Lay down with me?”
Wen Kexing smiles brilliantly. “Is Ah-Xu asking me to warm his bed?”
For a moment, it looks like Zhou Zishu tries to roll his eyes but his laughter wins out in the end. “Tonight you can start with just keeping me warm instead.”
“That’s not a no,” Wen Kexing teases but steps close so he can help Zhou Zishu slip under the thick covers without leaning on his shoulder.
“It’s not,” Zhou Zishu agrees, a glint in his eyes as he grins up at Wen Kexing. It’s a sight Wen Kexing wants to burn into his memory, wants to remember with his entire being. He hurries to get under the covers as well, and he carefully cuddles closer to Zhou Zishu, disregarding the dull pressure in his back in favor of making sure Zhou Zishu’s shoulder and the nails aren’t affected by his eagerness.
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu mumbles into Wen Kexing’s hair as they settle down. His body is warm under Wen Kexing’s fingers, is solid and alive.
“Ah-Xu,” Wen Kexing says. His smile feels wet.
“Lao Wen,” Zhou Zishu sighs, sounds content, sounds real.
Wen Kexing swallows and turns his face so he can press his lips and his words and his breath into Zhou Zishu’s skin. “Ah-Xu.”