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He finds A-Xu outside the little tyke’s room – sitting with his head leaned back against the wall and drinking wine.
“A-Xu, your little disciple is sick, and you have nothing better to do than laze around and leave all the work to your wife?”
At this, A-Xu sets his gourd down and grins at Wen Kexing. “And what do I have a wife for then? What work would you even have me do?”
“We need fresh sheets. Or, if my husband prefers, I can set you to cook more stew.”
A-Xu musters him with his dark eyes, briefly thoughtful, before he heaves himself up like an old man. “You’ve already sent me out on enough errands,” he waits a beat, still watching, “but we need more firewood.”
Still, when A-Xu wanders off to collect wood, Wen Kexing catches him leave with Zhang Chengling’s soiled sheets as well. He can watch him go for a while, his path curving through the field beyond their temporary cottage and in the direction of a shallow river.
He did send A-Xu out on many errands. Though his body has recovered well from the nails, they had been warned that he would still be quick to fall ill from now on.
In the evening, A-Xu brings Zhang Chengling a book of poetry ‘to further his education.’ He tells him to stop being lazy and meditate, and Wen Kexing watches them and wonders.
He often used to say the same.
It is the middle of the night, and Zhang Chengling’s hair is lank, damp with sweat against Wen Kexing’s fingers.
He heaves again, though this time only thick spittle comes up, which he spits down into the chamber pot.
At the doorway, A-Xu is hovering – merely a dark silhouette blocking the weak moonlight. He’s gone when Wen Kexing next looks up.
The smell of vomit is heavy in the air, and Zhang Chengling’s breathing is loud and laboured. Years ago, Wen Kexing held the hair of a different child out of the way. It was so easy to get sick from spoilt food, for such a little girl.
Eventually A-Xu returns with a bowl of fresh water, a few rags, and by then Zhang Chengling is sleepily listing against Wen Kexing’s side.
“Clean yourself up,” Zhang Chengling’s shifu says, pretending at indifference.
And yet it is A-Xu that ends up clumsily wiping at Zhang Chengling’s brow, at the corner of his mouth, before he has time to do it himself, like an irate grandmother. It is A-Xu that forces him to drink, and grasps for his wrist to feel for his pulse.
Half the day has gone by already without a trace of Wen Kexing’s lazy husband.
Zhang Chengling is confined to the courtyard, after turning alarmingly pale when he joined Wen Kexing in the kitchen – for a moment Wen Kexing almost expected he’d spit out his meagre breakfast right there. So the stew is thin, perhaps more of a broth, with ginger and chicken liver to help with digestion and strengthen his body.
Occasionally Wen Kexing will strain his hearing over the crackle of the fire, and the bubble of simmering soup, to listen for Zhang Chengling shuffling through the small little house like a ghost. Either he sleeps, or he tries to practice meditation like his irate shifu told him to, and he makes a miserable sight whenever Wen Kexing passes by to bring him water.
Wen Kexing truly feels like a beleaguered wife – busy with keeping an eye on A-Xu’s little disciple, cooking and cutting, and running a household, all while his husband is off doing who-knows-what.
On his next pass, he finds that Zhang Chengling has fallen asleep again, sitting on the walkway where A-Xu sat just hours earlier, and curled up on himself. For a moment he almost looks like a corpse, when you approach from a certain angle, but his body moves with his steady breaths and his face is the damp pale of a body sweating through sickness.
A gentle breeze plays with the edges of his robes, until Wen Kexing drapes a blanket over him and leaves him as he is.
Wordlessly, A-Xu holds up one sleeve and shakes his little pill bottle. His hands are stained green, brighter than the round little pills, which smell strongly of bitter herbs.
“Swallow,” he directs, as he presses two into Zhang Chengling’s hand.
The golden evening sun is throwing long shadows over A-Xu’s eyes, yet it lends a bit of warmth to Zhang Chengling’s pale complexion as he obediently swallows down the pills. He immediately screws up his face before he starts coughing.
A-Xu just watches him, looking like he doesn’t quite know how to react, before he wipes off the sprout of his water gourd and passes it along. Wen Kexing hides his smile by bowing his head and blowing on the bowl of soup some more. It mustn’t be too hot.
From this angle he can’t see it clearly, but he thinks Zhang Chengling must be smiling when he whispers a hoarse thank you.
After some deliberation, A-Xu says: “You’re wasting time that you could spend training right now.”
“Yes, shifu.”
“A-Xu, don’t you think you’re being too harsh on the poor boy?”
But A-Xu just rolls his eyes and huffs, “He’ll be fine in a day or two.”
That evening, Wen Kexing is the first to lay down in bed, listens to A-Xu sliding Zhang Chengling’s door closed without a word before he wanders over to slip in beside Wen Kexing.
A-Xu’s body is a comfortable weight in Wen Kexing’s arms, they’re separated only by the thin cloth they sleep in.
Wen Kexing touches him where he’s radiating heat, earns himself an irate elbow to the side. He knows A-Xu often does this, that he derives some satisfaction from being pursued, that he likes denying both Wen Kexing and himself. So, Wen Kexing knows: he could keep pushing, and eventually A-Xu would let him.
His body is soft. He’s gained back some weight.
Wen Kexing takes his hand away again.
Eventually, A-Xu sighs and laboriously turns around, presses close to steal Wen Kexing’s body heat. He worms a hand into his sleep robe to hug him closer, his cold palm a shock on Wen Kexing’s back.
Together they listen to the quiet night. Zhang Chengling must have trouble sleeping – they can hear him turn in his bed like a pig on the roast.
Somehow, they all end up falling asleep, uninterrupted for the first time in near three days.