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Song Qingshi did not get sick often.
Oh, he’d had one very, very serious genetic illness in his past life. But, if one was counting—which of course Song Qingshi was—that was still only one time. He’d gotten a few colds as a child, and had the flu for a few days when he was nine, but overall he just wasn’t exposed to much.
He was a homebody, and when he wasn’t at home he was in a hospital. He was also just lucky, in his own unlucky way.
It was even less of a problem once he’d transmigrated. A whole extra system in his body that could keep him perfectly healthy! He didn’t even have to earth about forgetting to eat as he studied!
He was an immortal master, and the medicine king, having access to all the best inoculations and sanitary conditions. He just didn’t get sick.
Which was why it was so strange when he did get sick.
“Master, are you feeling alright?” Yue Wuhuan asked, concern clear in his voice.
Song Qingshi tried to tell him he was alright, but there was a hand on his forehead before he could get a word out. Yue Wuhuan looked down at him with a tight-lipped expression for exactly three seconds before turning around, quickly dressing, and going into the hall to order a servant to bring cold water and blankets.
Yue Wuhuan had been sleeping in Song Qingshi’s room ever since they had begun their sexual relationship. At first, Yue Wuhuan had been hesitant for some unclear reason, despite them having shared a bed many times in the past. Perhaps it was different if one shared a bed after sex? Either way, he had quickly let go of sleeping separately after the first few nights they exhausted each other so thoroughly (Yue Wuhuan exhausted himself, Song Qingshi was happy to be there) that they fell asleep immediately after.
It had been much the same just last night. Song Qingshi had been working late, refining a new subspecies of grass into a new pill only to have Yue Wuhuan pulling him away from his desk. He’d said Song Qingshi was neglecting himself—utterly ridiculous, Song Qingshi was just fine! But also that he was neglecting Yue Wuhuan—completely unacceptable, off to bed he went.
Then they’d had their usual several hours session of sex that happened around twice a week, sparked by smaller quickies when the situation appeared. It had been just as lovely as any other night, and Song Qingshi had slept soundly in his Wuhuan’s arms.
Then he’d woken up feeling like he’d been hit by a truck, and not in the pleasant way he usually did on the morning after.
He’d shifted around a bit, feeling chilled yet sweaty, and Yue Wuhuan had woken immediately. He was always such a light sleeper, the fact Song Qingshi had woken up first at all was a bad sign.
As Yue Wuhuan sat back on the bed after calling for supplies, he looked Song Qingshi over carefully.
“I’m really alright, Wuhuan. I think it’s just a cold,” Song Qingshi tried to reassure, which was undermined by his scratchy voice. Yue Wuhuan’s frown only deepened.
“Master is a high level cultivator. He would not get sick for no reason,” he had the focused expression that meant he had a million thoughts running through his head too fast for Song Qingshi to even take a guess at them. The only thing he could do was wait for him to speak again. “Is it possible our… actives last night have something to do with this?”
Song Qingshi considered. They had sex olenty of times without any adverse affects. More likely it would be Song Qingshi constantly staying up to late and working too much, but that also had never yet resulted in him being sick. Poison, maybe? But how would anyone have managed that? He only ever ate Yue Wuhuan’s food, and hadn’t gone out recently.
“I doubt it.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Yue Wuhuan took the water and blankets quickly, and shooed the servant away sternly. He quickly pulled a few talismans from his sleeve and placed them on the door.
Song Qingshi let himself be coddled like a child without any fuss, quite used to it from his previous life.
Yue Wuhuan placed a cool, wet cloth on his forehead before wrapping him up in so many blankets he couldn’t move properly.
“Are you still cold?” Yue Wuhuan asked tensely. Song Qingshi tried to shake his head but found the blankets didn’t allow him to.
“No, I’m alright.“
“Your throat is sore, drink water,” In the next moment, there was a glass of water at Song Qingshi’s lips.
He asked calmly, “Wuhuan?”
The reply was tense and quick, “Yes?”
“Sometimes people just get sick. I will be alright with some rest.”
“I’ll instruct the servants not to bother you,” Yue Wuhuan responded diplomatically, neither admitting Song Qingshi was correct nor openly contradicting him. He set down the water within Song Qingshi’s reach—or, it would be within his reach, if he weren’t trapped in blankets—and dimmed the luminous beads.
Song Qingshi took the hint to try to sleep, listening to Yue Wuhuan’s exiting footsteps.
It was surprisingly easy for Song Qingshi to fall into a hazy, shallow sleep. He almost didn’t realize he was unconscious except for the jumps in time. A moment after he shut his eyes, Yue Wuhuan was back at his side pouring a truly bitter medicine down his throat before quickly following it with some honey-sweetened tea.
Just as quickly as he relaxed into Wuhuan’s hand as it wiped a strand of hair from his brow, he was alone again. Reaching out a mental probe out of boredom, he could hear the faint shuffles of Medicine King Valley’s residents several rooms away. Someone poured some liquid—watering the plants, he suspected—another was chatting with them.
He absently listened to people all over before, oh, there was Yue Wuhuan. Song Qingshi smiled to himself.
He considered calling out to the vine “casually” resting next to him, but felt his throat was too scratchy. He managed to wiggle out one hand from his soft cocoon and reached out to the vine, brushing his fingers over it.
The vine reacted immediately, wrapping around his finger before sliding over to his face. It slid past his lips softly, up to his forehead to check his temperature. Ah, Wuhuan, he must be worrying himself ragged. He always did struggle with keeping his usual calm when it came to Song Qingshi.
He brought his hand back up to the vine, pulling it off his forehead so he could instead cuddle it to his chest. It didn’t fight the action, letting him settle and fall back into his on and off sleeping.
A dip on the mattress made Song Qingshi wake again, his headache mostly gone but a soreness still in his throat. Yue Wuhuan was slipping into bed next to him, an almost imperceptible frown still marring his lovely face.
“How late is it?” he croaked out.
“Evening,” Yue Wuhuan whispered back.
Song Qingshi sighed, “I’ve slept away the day.”
“It’s a good thing,” his husband reminded, “It means your body is healing.”
Song Qingshi huffed indignantly, gently swatting Yue Wuhuan’s hand away when the other man misinterpreted it as a cough, “ I taught you that.”
“Of course,” Yue Wuhuan agreed, “I’m only repeating Master’s wisdom.”
“Hmph,” Song Qingshi freed himself enough from the blankets to pull himself into his husband’s chest burying his face into the silk fabric of his robes. Yue Wuhuan was always the perfect temp tire, since he naturally ran hot and Song Qingshi naturally ran cold. With him being sick, Song Qingshi was even more inclined to cling to him like a zealous octopus.
Yue Wuhuan did nothing to discourage this, wrapping his arms around Song Qingshi and burying his face in his hair. Song Qingshi always pretended not to notice the way Yue Wuhuan sniffed him. It was… cute. Cute, and also something else, if Song Qingshi weren’t currently sick.
In the morning—or rather, whenever they woke up—Song Qingshi felt refreshed enough to crawl out of bed. He was going to get a glass of water when he felt himself tugged back to sitting by the back of his collar.
He had to cram his neck a bit to see the vine holding onto him. Though it had no face, he was quite sure it would have a stern expression if it did.
Song Qingshi tugged at it lightly, “Excuse me, I’m just getting water.”
Approximately twenty seconds later there was a glass of water at his lips.
“May I drink it myself?” slowly, the vine handed the glass over, “Thank you.”
Song Qingshi was probably more amused than he should’ve been at his husband’s worrying. It was just so rare to see him flustered. Song Qingshi was unused to being the level headed one in non-crisis scenarios!
He pinched the vine on his collar playfully, making it twitch in surprise. Song Qingshi smiled and settled back into bed. He was feeling better, but perhaps a little longer wouldn’t hurt.
…
…
Resting was much less boring when he had been asleep.
Song Qingshi mindlessly petted the vine resting over his midsection. It was smooth, and slightly cold. They always felt wonderful against his skin, which made sense, because they were an extension of Yue Wuhuan.
He brought it to his face, turning into his side and laying his cheek against it as if it was a pillow. The vine curled against his face, brushing against the underside of his jaw, making him ticklish.
“You did that on purpose,” he complained softly, trying with minimal effort to pull his face away only to have it followed by the vine.
Song Qingshi, struck by an idea, suddenly turned and caught the vine in his mouth. The vine tugged away suddenly, caught off guard, but Song Qingshi held on with his teeth, fighting back a smile.
“You…!” The door opened with a slight shutter, Yue Wuhuan standing in the threshold with his cheeks tinted a faint pink, “You are supposed to be resting. ”
Song Qingshi let the vine out of his mouth and wiped away the strand of spit left on his chin, “I don’t feel sick anymore.”
“You’ll still need to recover even after. You’re the best doctor in the immortal realm, you know that already,” Yue Wuhuan said reproachfully.
“I was staying in bed, just like I’m supposed to.”
Yue Wuhuan crossed his arms. Song Qingshi gave him a small, borderline mischievous smile. Perhaps he had been spending too much time around An Long lately… he behavior was deteriorating.
“You were distracting me is what you were doing.”
“Wuhuan is an excellent multi-tasker,” Song Qingshi defended, “He can certainly spare one vine to cuddle with his husband.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. Sleep.” Yue Wuhuan walked over and guided Song Qingshi back to a prone position.
Song Qingshi pulled Yue Wuhuan’s hand up much like he had done with the vine, except this time he brought it to his lips.
“I really do feel better. Can’t I join you in your office?” When he saw Yue Wuhuan’s expression remained firm, he pressed a few more kisses against his husband’s hand and added, “Please?”
Yue Wuhuan sighed, and Song Qingshi knew he’d won.
Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in Wuhuan’s office wrapped in what must be the entire stock of blankets in the valley. One of his hands held a cup of tea and the other poked out of the cacoon to hold his husband’s.