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Yan Zijing comes to him in the middle of the night, the moonlight cradling wan skin.
The fool is thinly dressed, in what looks to be a sleepshirt and pants and a robe not meant for the bite of midnight wandering. He’s barely holding himself up, propped up against the frame of Jinran’s backdoor, a trail of trampled flowers behind him.
Muddy with sleep, Jinran can only ask, “What’s wrong?”
He reaches out just in time, ending up with an armful of merchant before his mind can properly catch up.
Zijing coughs into his chest, dry and pained. It racks his entire frame, hands curling into soft Chang’an silks. It is the chill of the man’s skin that shocks the sleep out of Jinran’s system, his palm cupping Zijing’s nape.
He is quick to pull his visitor inside, eyes trying to catch any watchers in the dark, friend and foe. The city streets are empty and there is nothing that Jinran has learnt to trust less.
Neither of them speak as the door is shut and barred and Zijing is led deeper into this house he has never thought to enter. The hardwood has been polished recently, making nary a sound as he drags his feet, doing his best not to collapse fully against Jinran and let the man carry him to wherever he is guiding them to.
In between shuddering coughs that leave him breathless, Zijing sees the muted decorations of the house. The cream and pale orange cushions, the walls of tapestry and forest scenes, and shelf upon shelf of books. It suits him, Zijing thinks, so horribly mundane and calm.
A piercing headache lances through him and Zijing does not think of anything for quite a while.
Zijing wakes slowly, too slowly. The sun is bright, falling in lines through window shutters and softened by sheer curtains.
He wakes up alone, and the room is empty. It is sparsely embellished, its few luxuries simple but finely-sourced. He runs a hand over the multiple blankets layered on top of him, and pushes them off, silently bemoaning the immediate cold that strikes.
It takes more work to sit up than Zijing will ever admit, a low but persistent ache in his muscles and a throbbing pain at his temples. He manages it anyway, light-headed and stubborn as his bare feet touch the floor.
It must be the rustling of the blankets that does it, as Jinran pops up in the doorway, frazzled and with a wrinkled brow.
“Did you come here just to faint?” He asks, irritated after a fitful night spent wondering if Zijing would ever rouse. “I was about to go call Duanwu.”
“No!” The panic rings out in the room, and Zijing catches himself. “No, you cannot tell her anything.”
Jinran has never done well with not understanding things, uncertainty pricks at him like needles and he pushes and pushes for answers until they go away. “Why on earth not? What has happened?”
He walks right up to the bed when his visitor’s eyes remain fixed on the floor, so close that his robe brushes Zijing’s knees. He waits for an answer.
When it becomes apparent that the silence will stay, Jinran pivots and goes low enough to catch Zijing’s gaze. It is desolate, and that is perhaps what unnerves him the most. “Why have you come to me?”
For a long moment, Jinran thinks he will have to leave with the question biting at his heels. Then, Zijing says, “The poison is winning, scholar.”
His voice is quiet, devoid of the strength that Jinran has grown accustomed to, yet still full of that familiar conviction. It was what had led Jinran to offer that pearl bracelet to him all those years ago, convinced that the elusive merchant could somehow bring sense to the goose chase he had been tasked with. It was why he understood Duanwu’s love for him, they both held that same assuredness in how they lived.
And so, Jinran feels like he has failed. It is rare that people come to him with a question he cannot meet, a challenge he cannot rise to. Yet, when the woman he has followed from sea to city to desert asked him the most important question she has ever asked of anyone, he came up empty.
Now, he is on his knees before a man he cannot save.
An apology sits like salt on his tongue, he keeps it there and lets it melt. It slips down his throat as he makes to speak. “I know. But I am no doctor and I am no lover.”
Shame does not look good on Zijing, it is awkward and uncomfortable. “I left her sleeping. She must be tearing Yangzhou apart.”
Jinran chuckles drily. He has long come to terms with where her heart lay and the jealousy is easy to push away, a paltry thing. “It will not be long before the sea brings the storm here. What will the sailor ask of the ship?”
“Give him shelter. Keep him far away.”
Jinran jerks away and rises to his feet, his mirth leaving as quickly as it came. “What are you - no.”
“Jinran -”
“You burden me, Yan Zijing.” Anger wells up and Jinran feels almost betrayed that Zijing would ask him to do this.
The other man says nothing, looking up at him quietly.
“You are asking me to help you break her heart,” Jinran hisses.
“I am asking you to keep a secret.” Zijing’s next words are cut short by a wheezing cough. He feels a hand rub his back and the scent of tea enters his nose. “You kept secrets for her. Now keep one for me.”
The merchant is still sat in a mountain of all the blankets Jinran owns, courtesy of the chill of his skin the night before. Jinran towers over him, but has never felt more vulnerable.
He is scared, of helplessly watching a dear friend waste away in the face of his own failure, and of his need to keep trying.
“It is cowardly of me to ask you this, I know.” Whatever Zijing is trying to say next catches in his throat.
“All this time, I thought I would be able to walk away. That I would turn my back on her and everything else would come easily.” He laughs meanly. “But it appears that I cannot bring myself to go so far that I do not hear of her, or to die alone amongst strangers.”
Zijing looks up and Jinran finds himself recalling the last time he saw the other man’s tears. It was the night they found Duanwu in the forest, half-dead as they pulled her from what was meant to be her grave.
“It will be difficult, you know? I will spend all my days lying to her, helping her look for you.” Even the thought of the ordeal Jinran is agreeing to is exhausting.
“You are the smartest man I know, you can learn to deceive.” Zijing smiles, and mischief bleeds into it. “How you have not yet picked up the talent for it from all these years with Duanwu and with me, I have no idea.”
“Out of spite, that is how.” Jinran sits down on the bed, conveniently able to prop up Zijing who still did not look all too well.
They quiet and Zijing starts to sag into him, energy fading after having said his piece. Neither comment when Zijing finds himself laying his head against Jinran’s shoulder.
“Thank you.”