Work Text:
The smallest finger on his left hand was the first to go.
Wei Ying didn't notice, too busy using it to type, until he closed his eyes to blink and upon opening them accidentally glanced around the room. It wasn't dark, as he'd thought it had become. Outside it was, yes, the inside of the room reflecting on the windows, but the lights were lit.
He certainly hadn't done that. Wen Ning, then, flicking the light switch on and murmuring a hello too quiet for Wei Ying to hear, shutting the door to a crack and retreating elsewhere into the apartment. The day had passed. It was dark now, but Wei Ying had thought the room was dark—it was him, his eyes greying at the sides, everything but his screen becoming fuzzy.
And why had he stopped? Because the screen had become fuzzy as well, and he had blinked to clear the muck from his eyes and then get back to work, taking advantage of the good day—
Wei Ying swallowed and found his mouth dry. Reached for the water bottles he kept at the edge of the desk. Out of sight, out of mind, and dehydration just wasn't the move on top of everything else in his messed up brain. He sipped. Too warm and too cold at once, and he grimaced. Too much water after too much negligence. His throat felt funny, his ears muddled, the back of his neck too warm.
Wei Ying groaned. On autopilot, he pressed the button to save his program, and put his head down into his hands. Miscalculated—his head knocked the water bottle, plastic in case of such mishaps, and water spilled by his ear, wetting his sleeve at the elbow. He twitched his arm and it rolled off the desk, winced at the sound and half-heartedly kicked at it, and found his leg refusing to obey.
So much for the good day.
They were few and far in between, to the extent that he could sit at the computer for so long, but sometimes it happened, the physical symptoms and brain fog lifting at the same time and letting him alone into the office without the blue light glasses that always managed to press uncomfortably against his scars when he had them on for too long. Here was the other side of the issue. A few more minutes and his eyes would work again.
Wei Ying huffed a laugh. That was why he didn't drive. That, and the history of seizures and passing out and light sensitivity, and the absolutely atrocious sense of direction. He could find north on a good day. On a bad day, he couldn't figure which way was up and which was down, and—
Down he went. It was a familiar journey by now, on bad days, but he hadn't had bad days in so long. Medium days, one after another, frustrating but by now a welcome alternative to this. The rug was soft, because of course it was, because he'd taken his shoes off in the store despite Lan Zhan's glare and Wen Ning's terrified looking around and buried his toes into the fibers, and it had fully been his right, because he was the greatest fall risk in the household. He'd told them, and they'd made faces again, and he'd flounced right off the carpet to press kisses onto their cheeks.
Lovely skin, both of them. Very kissable.
The rug was lovely, too. Wei Ying wanted to make a mental note to himself to brag about it later, but it wouldn't stick. Not much did normally, and certainly not when his brain was so scrambled. He pressed his face further into it, willed his fingers to feel its softness. The position was uncomfortable, as far as positions went, and he thought that the computer chair leg was digging into his own leg in some way, but he just couldn't figure out how. Somehow.
He twisted a shoulder and flopped over. Much better. Less chance of suffocating in the rug. Probably. He wouldn't suffocate, he didn't think, but better safe than sorry, and facedown people always looked like they were in much more trouble. Sideways was better. What was it again?—Wen Qing had told him. Other doctors had told him. So many times. Oh, yes. Recovery position. The nausea had passed, and who really needed their peripheral vision, anyway? Wei Ying had never been a demanding person, a vague greyness was enough for him.
He swallowed and wiggled his fingers. That was one part of his body working. He had little hope for his legs. Not paralysis, not quite, just heaviness, a bone-deep exhaustion that he hadn't noticed until he'd torn himself away and his brain said stop.
His finger had stopped hurting. Psychosomatic or something else, more likely a warning than an actual problem, and he hadn't noticed because he hadn't felt it because he'd been busy working on—
On something. The program was saved, he'd look later, because he had more pressing problems now.
He swallowed and hoped his voice would work. It carrying through the apartment was a second problem. "Wen Ning!"
Footsteps, voices.
Maybe it wasn't such a bad day if he could summon the strength for that. His hearing rarely caused problems. Tinnitus, occasionally, but that was just as likely from the music as the brain injury, and the scientist in Wei Ying was much more preoccupied with technology than anatomy. That was a problem for someone else. Wen Qing, if he ever remembered to ask.
"Fell," he muttered to Wen Ning's feet when they appeared in his vision. Then, to his hands when they sat him upright, "Didn't notice."
Wen Ning's eyes asked a question. Wei Ying closed his own in a slow blink in response. Didn't notice the time, didn't notice the lack of sustenance, didn't notice the disorientation. Take your pick.
Wen Ning frowned. Snuck a glance behind himself. Wei Ying's eyes took a moment to adjust before they noticed Lan Zhan's silhouette in the doorway, concerned, leaning onto the doorsill as well as his crutches, exhausted as well.
"Can you walk?" Lan Zhan's voice. A bad day for Wen Ning, too, then, it seemed, if he was checking. Wei Ying pressed his forehead forward against his shoulder in apology. Unnecessary apology, Wen Ning would say, but Wen Ning's voice had decided to take the same day off as Wei Ying's general functioning—which it usually didn't, not to this degree, not for a long time, so this wasn't a bad day, it was a terrible day, and he required many kisses and cuddles and meds to get back to his baseline medium, thank you very much. Not necessarily in that order.
"Yes," he replied. An approximation of sound. He was so tired. Having a body, would not recommend, zero out of five stars.
Wen Ning tugged him just upright enough for Wei Ying to decide on his own if he could shuffle to the bedroom given adequate support. His brain caught up with the movement too late, and by the time Wei Ying was once again moved, into Wen Ning's arms this time—and they were wonderful arms, so firm, so good at holding, so warm—he hadn't even had time to make up his mind.
Probably not good to walk, then. He had the thought when they'd passed the threshold, and Wei Ying said to Lan Zhan as seriously as he could, "Arms."
Meaning, of course, that someone should lick Wen Ning's biceps to show appreciation.
Lan Zhan hummed in agreement. He had a fair familiarity with those arms, too, on days when he stranded himself on the sofa in the living room, or when driving proved too difficult and he couldn't get back indoors.
"Arms," Wei Ying repeated. He didn't know what came out, of course, but it needed to be said. The sliver of smile his recovering vision caught was all the necessary response.