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Standing at the base of Mount Kunlun, swaying on his feet, Xue Meng can only stare at the steps leading up to its peak.
It’s not that many, he tells himself. There are 3,799 steps leading up to Sisheng Peak. This really isn’t that many.
No matter how many times he repeats that, his body remains frozen in place. Every movement seems to hurt, every breath makes his lungs burn. Beneath an exhaustion that seems to be lodged into his very bones, frustration gathers. Had he come this far just to stop here? Had he pushed and pushed through sleepless nights and interminable days for nothing?
What would his parents say? What would his shizun say?
Xue Ziming, don’t you dare give up. Are you really a disciple of Yuheng?
He grits his teeth, ignoring the way his vision swims, and takes the first step, then a second. He can do this—he has to do this. If he can make it up to Taxue Palace, perhaps he can rest for a day, just long enough to make his body work again. Then they can talk, and maybe they won’t turn him away, and maybe he can finally catch his breath.
On the thirtieth step, his legs give out from under him. It’s a small stroke of good fortune that he’s able to react quickly enough to catch himself with his hands, rather than his face; at least when his arms collapse, he’s close enough to the ground that it doesn’t hurt. He lies there, his skin going numb where it’s touching the snow, and it’s all he can do not to close his eyes and let the darkness at the edges of his vision engulf him. His body won’t listen to him anymore, even when the cold starts to burn, and he lets out a frustrated sob. He’s so fucking tired, and not a single thing has gone right since the day his parents died.
Xue Meng is almost certain that he’s imagining the voice calling out over the wind; then, a little closer, a little louder, he hears, “Ziming?”
Then again, with more urgency: “Ziming!”
He tries to lift his head enough to look up, to see who could possibly be calling to him, but all he can make out is the fluttering hem of white robes. For a moment, his heart stops in his chest. “Shizun?” he croaks out.
When the person kneels down beside him and gently shifts him, tilting his face up, it becomes very clear that it’s not his shizun. Green eyes stare down at him, concerned—an expression he’s never seen on the man above him. “Mei Hanxue?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding nothing like his usual self. “Can you stand?”
“No.”
“Alright.” He turns to someone else, someone Xue Meng can’t see from his vantage point, and says, “Help me.”
The wind is just loud enough that Xue Meng can’t hear the response, and since he can barely focus even with them open, he closes his eyes. Less than a minute later, he hears Mei Hanxue murmur, very close to his ear, “Ziming, put your arms around his neck,” before he’s hoisted up and pressed against someone’s back.
Having no energy to respond, he simply does as he’s told, wrapping his arms around the person in front of him and fighting a sudden wave of vertigo as he’s lifted up. He feels soft white fur pressed against his cheek, a little damp from the snow, but no less comforting for it. When something warm and heavy is draped over him, he tries to mumble his thanks; if the giver hears him, he doesn’t respond.
At some point, he opens his eyes again and sees Mei Hanxue walking beside them, holding an umbrella over Xue Meng and the person carrying him. Apparently it’s not big enough to cover all three of them, because his golden hair is filled with snowflakes, which might not be so bad if he was at least wearing a cloak to protect against the wind. Stupid—he’s going to catch a cold.
His eyes grow heavy far too quickly, fluttering shut again after his brief glimpse of Mei Hanxue. Being carried like this isn’t particularly comfortable, but the umbrella is keeping the worst of the snow off of him, and he’s warm, warmer than he’s been in days. No one can blame him for resting a bit, just until they get to Taxue Palace and he can stand on his own two feet; a half hour at most, that’s all he needs.
So he lets himself drift off, and as he does, he realizes he can hear the faint tinkling of a bell somewhere close by.
When Xue Meng wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. The walls around him are adorned with unfamiliar tapestries and the scent of ambergris fills his nose. A little pulse of alarm goes through him before he turns his head and sees a man sleeping at his bedside, cheek pillowed in his hand, blonde hair spilling over his shoulders.
“Mei Hanxue,” he says, voice raspy.
“Hm?” Mei Hanxue’s eyes open immediately, so alert it was as though he hadn’t actually been sleeping at all. “Ah, Ziming. You’re awake.”
“Mn.” Without Xue Meng saying another word, Mei Hanxue pours a cup of water and brings it up to his lips, helping him drink it in slow, small sips. While it doesn’t fully soothe the ache in his throat, he sounds much more like himself when he says, “Thanks.”
Mei Hanxue nods, then presses the back of a cool hand against his forehead; although his expression doesn’t change much, something in his features seems to relax. “Your fever’s gone,” he says. “I’ll let the healers know.”
“My fever?” Xue Meng repeats, blinking. “I had a fever?”
“Yes. You’ve been fighting it for five days.”
“Five…” Xue Meng’s mind goes blank, unable to process the words. He can’t remember anything after being found by Mei Hanxue, not even the point when they’d reached the top of the stairs; how could five days have passed? Unless— “I’ve been asleep for five days?!”
Mei Hanxue’s eyes narrow, his hand against Xue Meng’s chest when he struggles to push himself up. “Yes, and your fever’s only just broken, so don’t try to get out of bed.”
He shakes his head, panic already flooding his body. “I need to talk to the palace master right away, I can’t—it’s already been too long! I don’t know what he’s doing to him, I have to go back—”
“Ziming.” Mei Hanxue’s voice is firm, cutting through Xue Meng’s words like cold steel. “You can speak to the sect leader soon, but you need to calm down, or your fever will come back and you won’t be able to do anything at all.”
“I can’t calm down! Mo Weiyu has my shizun. Do you understand? My shizun. I’ve already wasted so much time, I can’t just stay in bed while he tortures him or, or—” The words stick in his throat, unspeakable.
“I do understand, but you can’t help anyone in this condition,” he replies, as firmly as before, but not without sympathy. “I’m going to go get the healers now. Once they’ve confirmed that you’re okay, we can talk about this more.”
Xue Meng barely waits for him to slide the door closed before he scrambles out of bed. He has to admit, begrudgingly, that Mei Hanxue had perhaps made a point; his body is so weak that he has to grab at the wall to keep himself upright.
Get it together, he scolds himself. You’re already here, you just have to find the palace master. You’re so close.
He only makes it a few shaky steps forward before the door opens and he finds himself staring at Mei Hanxue once again. Xue Meng isn’t sure if it’s just an aftereffect of the fever, but even though it can’t have been more than two minutes since he left, Mei Hanxue looks…different, somehow.
“He said you’d probably do this,” Mei Hanxue sighs. “You really should be resting.”
“No. I need to talk to the palace master now. If you want me to get back in bed, you’ll have to make me.”
“That’s not how I’d prefer to get you into bed,” he replies, tone light. “Why do you have to speak to Sect Leader so urgently?”
Xue Meng stares at him incredulously. “Haven’t I told you already? I need help. I have to get my shizun back, and no other sect will listen to me!” That understates matters quite a bit, but he can’t speak of those meetings without choking on fury and shame. He will never, for as long as he lives, forget the sneers and contempt from his fellow sect leaders, the humiliation of being looked down upon like he was nothing. “Even though they owe Shizun their lives, those fucking cowards won’t lift a finger to help him. They’re all too afraid of becoming the next Rufeng Sect, but they don’t even—Mo Weiyu destroyed Sisheng Peak first. He killed my parents, he killed everyone, I can’t let him take my shizun, too! He’s all…he’s all I have left.”
His heart seizes in his chest, breath coming up short as though someone has punctured his lungs. Somehow, though the knowledge had been with him for over a year, the truth of those words hadn’t fully hit until this moment.
Mei Hanxue frowns, stepping forward and resting his hands on Xue Meng’s shoulders, a little bell jingling at his wrist. “Ziming, did you really think you had to ask? Of course we’re helping you.”
“...what?” Despite those being the words he’d been desperate to hear for so long, Xue Meng doesn’t know how to react now that they’ve been said. He’d expected to plead his case, as he had so many times before, to argue and beg and pray that the good relationship between Kunlun Taxue Palace and Sisheng Peak would carry him through. He had not expected Mei Hanxue to offer those words so matter-of-factly, as though it were a foregone conclusion.
“We already discussed it while you were asleep. For as long as you need it, you’ll have shelter here. Once you’re fully recovered, we can start planning how we’re going to rescue Chu-zongshi and get rid of Mo Weiyu, but you do have to recover first. Your fever was pretty scary.” Mei Hanxue smiles and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “We’re never going to turn our backs on you, Ziming. No matter what.”
Probably Xue Meng should apologize, or thank him, or at least agree to getting some more rest. Instead, he starts to cry, great, heaving sobs racking his shoulders as the dam holding back a year’s worth of anger, humiliation, and despair is destroyed by five minutes’ worth of kindness. He grips the front of Mei Hanxue’s robes like they’re his only lifeline and buries his face in his shoulder. Mei Hanxue doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around him and holds him close; it’s more than enough.
By the time the tears finally stop, the patch of robes Xue Meng had been crying into is soaked through, but Mei Hanxue doesn’t seem to mind. He mumbles, “Sorry,” anyway.
“It’s fine.” He pulls away and Xue Meng lets go, ignoring his own reluctance to do so. The lack of pity in Mei Hanxue’s eyes goes some way towards alleviating his embarrassment, at least. “Will you sit down now?”
Nodding, he takes a seat at the edge of the bed, exhaustion setting in almost immediately. “Thanks,” he finally says. “For…For everything.”
“There’s no need for thanks between friends.”
“Don’t be stupid. We don’t even know each other that well, and you…” He pauses as the memory comes back to him: a fox fur cloak over his shoulders, an umbrella held over his head. “You helped me up the mountain.”
“Mm. Think of that as repaying an old favor.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I’ll explain another time.”
Too tired to argue, he waves a hand. “Whatever. But I want to thank whoever carried me.”
There’s a twinkle in Mei Hanxue’s eyes, one that Xue Meng can’t even begin to interpret, but all he says is, “Very well, but he’ll tell you the same thing I did. If you really want to show him your gratitude, get some more sleep.”
He frowns. “But you said you were going to get the healers.”
“Did I? Well, they can wait. Rest is more important.”
Xue Meng wishes he could tell him that he doesn’t need to sleep any more—he still can’t believe it’s been five days—but it’s already getting hard to keep his eyes open. “Fine, but just for a little bit. You have to promise you’ll wake me up in a few hours.”
“I will,” he replies, sounding a little amused.
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I promise.” He gives him a small smile. “Sleep well, Ziming.”
Even after he’s crawled back under the covers and closed his eyes, Xue Meng can still feel Mei Hanxue’s presence at his bedside; for the first time in months, he feels safe when he falls asleep.