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Lan Zhan had never wanted to become familiar with pain so sharp it took his breath away like a punch to the gut, that left him gasping and lost, his eyes full of stars and his ears ringing. But as the years passed and his relationship with his spine grew distant and strained, he’d been forced to grow used to the feeling. To learn to expect it.
It bowled him over every time.
And there was no choice, whenever it came, but to sink to the floor and breathe through it.
One step—and a white-hot fire flashed through the small of his back; another step—and his lungs stopped, his heart flew to his throat. Lan Zhan, blind and breathless, levered himself down onto the steps, his hand still a vice grip on the railing.
One breath, two, three—it could have been seconds and could have been minutes; it wasn’t hours, but it sure felt like it—he let go, finger by finger. Relaxed his other hand around his cane and leaned it against the wall, scooted sideways as best he could and leaned himself against the wall, too.
Breathed, curled in on himself, arching his back first one way then another until the pain receded. Until he could swallow and think.
His back felt like it had been stabbed. It hadn’t. Lan Zhan wasn’t the type of person to get stabbed in an empty staircase. The only thing trying to actively kill him was his own body, and even then, it was just a bit of pain. A bit of spinal degeneration. Some compressed nerves. It had been years since he’d first needed the cane, months—months that were years, now—since he’d gotten surgery. And still. Still.
He curled a hand around his stomach and dug his fingers into his ribcage. It wasn’t catastrophic. It hurt. One more wrong movement, and he would feel it again. Would feel it if he sat differently, if he sat up, if he stood, if he tried walking again. It felt like an injury but it wasn’t, like he’d done something wrong but he hadn’t.
His head spun.
He put it down between his knees, sucking his stomach in to brace his back. Did that help? Sure. Not white-hot pain. Chili-oil pain, maybe. The deluxe kind Wei Ying carried in his backpack along with emergency meds. Wen Ning put the meds there.
Lan Zhan took out his phone and dropped it. It lay at his feet for seconds, minutes, hours, because he had nothing to think about other than picking it up and the pain that would follow. He flexed his fingers, felt blood run through them and focused on every cell, every bit of blood and skin and bone and muscle keeping him going and doing an awful job of it.
Attempt number two. Lan Zhan took a deep breath and stretched. Better fast than slow, get it over with and pass out in silence. He was on the side of the staircase, people could still walk around him if they needed to, but he couldn’t stand and do it himself, he couldn’t.
His fingers brushed against the phone, picked it up, dropped it in his lap, and wrapped around his other arm. Hugging himself with two arms now, because that indeed had been the wrong movement, Lan Zhan waited. And waited.
He was alone, maybe. He didn’t hear anyone walking. But he didn’t really hear anything as he waited for the pain to end. To subside.
And it did, so he called Wei Ying, who answered, and Lan Zhan bit his lip and said “I’m on the stairs,” and then “I didn’t fall,” and then “I can’t get up,” and then “It’s not that bad,” and then “I was on my way to see you,” and then “It really hurts.”
“What stairs?” Wei Ying said. He was on speaker, so Lan Zhan also heard him tell Wen Ning, “Can you go?” and “Hold on, I’ll ask,” and “You’re so good, Wen Ning, you’re both so good.” And then to Lan Zhan: “You’re so good, Lan Zhan, what stairs?”
“Home.” The elevator was broken. He took it when he could, but he could do stairs. He could, though slowly, one hand too-tight on the railing and the other careful not to put his cane down too close to the edge of the stairs and set himself flying. “I only got a quarter of the way down.”
“That’s far,” Wei Ying said, duly impressed, and to Wen Ning: “Home, he’s close to the top.” Lan Zhan and his brother lived on only the second floor. “Do you want us to come over instead?” Lan Zhan shook his head because he couldn’t talk yet, but Wei Ying couldn’t see him, so he forced his vocal cords into a semblance of a no. They’d made plans. He was going to come over. He was already on the stairs, he wouldn’t be any sort of host in this state. “No? Alright, that’s okay, we’ll get you. Fifteen minutes?” That was to Wen Ning. Clearer, now to Lan Zhan: “He’ll be fifteen minutes”—Wen Ning’s voice came now, a confirming grunt, Lan Zhan imagined his smile and smiled through his tears, and when had he started crying?—“you want me to talk to you while we wait?”
Lan Zhan gave a grunt of his own, fluttered a hand up to wipe his tears and changed his mind. Wen Ning could do it when he came, even with worse dexterity.
“The cake’s here,” Wei Ying said. They’d seen it advertised in the window of a new bakery and put in an order. “I peeked in the box—you wouldn’t mind, Wen Ning did too, we only saw the corner—and it smells good. Very summer. Spring. Strawberries.” The cake was frosted white with strawberries on top and three layers in the middle. “Have you picked strawberries before?” Lan Zhan gave a negative hum. “You should—we should—we should look into it, I picked blueberries once.” Lan Zhan didn’t point out that he couldn’t pick anything in this state. They wouldn’t leave something like that to chance; even though it had only been months since they’d reconnected, Wei Ying and Wen Ning were as attentive as before. Lan Zhan tried to be as well, to live up to the person he’d been before, the person they perhaps remembered, the person they made him want to be, to know and note the changes and injuries and altered habits. “You should take an extra slice when you go—two slices,” Wei Ying kept going, “three, so your brother gets one.” His brother was out of town; Lan Zhan would take one for him anyway, and if he had to eat it to keep it from going bad while his brother took his time getting back? “We got the fancy plates out, the ones with the flowers, you know”—Lan Zhan knew—“and tea, it’s all very fancy, Lan Zhan, trust me.”
“I do,” Lan Zhan breathed.
He heard footsteps, then saw Wen Ning, recognized his soft gray shirt, smiled at the tattoos sneaking out from under the sleeves.
Wen Ning waved.
Lan Zhan tentatively raised a hand and waved back.
There was no longer a knife in his spine, only poised and ready to strike again.
“You got there?” Wei Ying said. “Of course you did, I’m glad.” Lan Zhan and Wen Ning exchanged smiles, Lan Zhan lifting his head and resting it against the wall as he went. Not too bad. Nowhere near enough normal, but alright. Fine. Doable. “I’m gonna hang up now—no need to distract you—call me when you’re ready—”
The phone beeped. Wei Ying had hung up. Wen Ning slipped the phone into his pocket and wiped Lan Zhan’s tears, his hands neither good-day graceful nor bad-day clumsy.
He took Lan Zhan under the arm and at the hip, and when Lan Zhan stood he leaned forward into Wen Ning and yes, ow—bad, so bad, but he didn’t fall this time, didn’t fall when Wen Ning took his cane and offered himself on the other side as the railing, which Lan Zhan took hold of again.
One step, then another. They stopped and breathed. He couldn’t do it all in one go. Could barely do it as it was.
Wen Ning stuck with him, taking more and more weight, as Lan Zhan exchanged his iron grip on the railing for an iron grip on his cane, until they reached the lobby and Lan Zhan sank into one of the couches, putting his hands around his middle and his head on Wen Ning’s shoulder. Wen Ning took out his phone and ordered a car. A bus would do, but the buses were down today. Maintenance. Always maintenance.
The hard stairway hadn’t done his back any favors, but the sofa was helping. Wen Ning was helping. They were softer, warmer. He wasn’t alone. And it hurt, it did, but it wasn’t so bad now.
Wen Ning held out the emergency meds he always carried, one type for Wei Ying, one type for Lan Zhan, one type for himself, and the water bottle Lan Zhan hadn’t noticed before.
“Thank you,” he said. He drank without help. To gauge how bad it was, to prove that he could handle this. There was cake to eat, after all; he had to know if he’d be able to. He would be. And he’d take a long nap after, for at least three days. Worth it.
He handed back the water and soon Wen Ning nudged him up, walked at Lan Zhan’s pace to the waiting car, opened the door for him and helped him balance as he sat.
“We’re on our way,” Lan Zhan said, balancing the phone between his ear and Wen Ning’s. Wei Ying was doing something on the other end.
“I found juice,” Wei Ying said. “Peach, orange, mango… something else, it’s good. Not with cake, but it’s refreshing.” Summer had come and was going fast. “I’ll leave some for you—will you lie down?—the couch is good if you don’t wanna, there’s some pillows—” they were good pillows, some soft, some firm, one with embroidered bunnies “—I can’t wait to see you.”
Lan Zhan bumped his head against Wen Ning’s took his hand. “We can’t wait to see you too.”
The pain had settled above his hips. It would be back, would sneak up on him when he least expected it, but that was the thing with pain. That was the thing with life.
For now, there was cake.