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Jiaoqiu was terribly exhausted. Even opening the door to his own home seemed like a monumental task. The muscles in his shoulders were taut with tension, like a rubber band waiting to snap. The joints in his hand had a familiar ache, like worn machinery.
For months on end, Jiaoqiu had endured the same masochistic routine. Wake up on far too little sleep from the night before. More and more often, the other side of the bed was empty upon waking and on return, sheets already flattened by Moze’s absence. Their schedules aligned less and less these days. He would tread toward the washroom and douse his face in cold water, the icy temperature nipping at his skin. And temporarily, whatever tension and sorrow and anger carried in his mind would be overpowered by the same ritualistic pain. It was numbing. The closest thing to peace.
The rest of his morning followed similar steps. White coat slung neatly over a crisp collared shirt, trousers neatly cuffed. He could control his appearance. If nothing else remained of him at least his trousers remained neat and his collar remained crisp.
On the rare mornings Moze was home, Jiaoqiu would wear a tie, pretending to fumble with it until the other huffed and eventually walked over and neatly looped the tie with practiced precision, refusing to let the foxian move until his tie was perfectly straight. Both Moze and Jiaoqiu knew that the doctor could tie a tie as well as he could stitch a wound, but both spoke nothing of it. And Moze relished the opportunity of being able to unburden Jiaoqiu, even with the menial task of tying a tie, and Jiaoqiu relished in being taken care of- a fact he would rather take six feet underground than readily admit.
But more often than not, the house was ever too quiet, and Jiaoqiu would leave in solitude. For a practitioner who emphasized culinary medicine, he would leave the house with his hunger only sated by whatever he grabbed as he hurriedly stepped out the door. It didn’t matter. His sense of taste was dulled, and he found neither joy nor sorrow in food anymore. It was a means to an end.
The drive to the military hospital was accompanied by the drone of voices on the radio. Jiaoqiu paid little attention, but he knew the silence would usher in whatever thoughts he had used cold and pain and whatever other desperate attempt he could to chase them away. Another means to an end.
He had once believed himself to be a healer. He had started his career as a doctor with some lofty dream of saving the world. He thought the burning inside his chest led him toward something bigger than himself, that the pain and exhaustion that gnawed away at him was for something more. Such skilled hands would prescribe medication, would suture gaping wounds, would nurse cups of medicinal broth- that he would temporarily ease the physical and mental pain of the lives he took an oath to protect.
He eventually learned he was not a messiah, not a healer, and not a savant. Time had stripped such an illusion bare. He was a harbinger. He could replace his white coat with a hood and carry a scythe and he would feel no different. Yes, he “healed” soldiers, but for what purpose? To send them back to the jaws of death sooner or later. If fate was merciful, they would meet death on the battlefield quickly. Maybe even painlessly. If fate was unkind, they would make their way back to Jiaoqiu’s care, where he would heal them, and they would be sent back on the same, meaningless cycle. Whether soldier or healer, it was all a means to an end.
And for that, Jiaoqiu was tired. The truth gnawed at him until there was no vitality left to feast on in his body, only tired bones. And tonight, standing on his doorstep, key trembling in his hand, Jiaoqiu wondered if he would be anything else.
Still, he clicked the door open, and the faintest traces of warmth mended his battered mind and body. He noted Moze’s boots by the mat, neatly placed as always. The tie he had abandoned in the morning was draped over the arm of the couch, looking as if someone took time to press the creases.
And just barely, Jiaoqiu felt like he could breathe again. He slipped off his own boots, placing them next to Moze’s, and noticed the faint aroma of sichuan peppers and chili oil beckoning him to step into the kitchen.
As he followed the scent, akin to a bloodhound, and found Moze. His tall figure at the stove, broad shoulders nursing a bubbling pot with the same patient precision he brought to everything.
Something as simple as the scent of spice stirred his memory. Jiaoqiu remembered sleepless nights spent drafting recipes for nourishing broths for his patients, praying that the ingredients he included could restore strength and vitality to those who drank it. He remembered his half forgotten conviction that food itself could heal. He had long since lost his own taste for it. But Moze hadn’t.
The tension in Jiaoqiu’s shoulders melted away ever so slightly. “What’s all this, then?” he teased, his voice carrying more fondness than he meant to.
Moze didn’t turn when Jiaoqiu entered, but he shifted his weight enough to glance over his shoulder. A ghost of a smile laid on his face.
“You’re home late,” he said simply. His voice was low and even, as usual.
Jiaoqiu pulled out a kitchen chair and slid into it, suddenly remembering the exhaustion gripping his body and pulling him down. His legs ached. When was the last time he sat down?
“Thought I’d get you something to eat before you collapse,” Moze mused, gaze not wavering from the pot he nursed.
Jiaoqiu sank into his seat and huffed. “Collapse? I’m on my feet all day. I think I’d notice if I was about to keel over.”
Moze only glanced at him, raising his brow ever so slightly. He shook his head and ladled broth into a bowl, setting it in front of Jiaoqiu, the porcelain clinking against the wooden table. Jiaoqiu’s ear flicked.
Steam curled up against his face, kissing his cheeks. The scent of sichuan pepper was sharp, enough for any ordinary person to start tearing up. The steam wafted into his nostrils and stung them, and he hated that it felt comforting. He couldn’t taste much of anything these days, but he could most certainly feel the unforgiving pain of spice eating at his mouth, searing his throat. He no longer remembered the comforting taste of flavors from his childhood, but at least the pain was familiar.
“What’s the occasion?” Jiaoqiu tried again, leaning back in his chair with practiced nonchalance. “Such special treatment from the Shadow Guard… What’d I do to deserve all this?”
Moze pulled his own chair out, legs scraping against hardwood floors. “You came home late three nights in a row. You look like death.” He stated, like he was observing the weather outside.
Jiaoqiu picked up the spoon, and stared at his distorted reflection in the broth as silence stretched between partners. Grey hair nodded down to the soup. “Eat.”
The foxian heeded the command, picking up the spoon. He slowly took a sip, letting the chili oil burn his throat, somehow both numbing and fiery. For a fleeting second, he remembered mornings spent with vigor, mixing together ingredients and diligently recording recipes to feed his naive conviction that food, too, can be medicine.
His thoughts were interrupted by the faint clinking of Moze’s own chopsticks against his own bowl of plain rice. Moze detested the sensation of spice, finding it overpowering and frankly, unpleasant. Yet for Jiaoqiu he had learned several recipes, mastering cooking with heat.
Moze’s voice cut into the reverie. “You can’t keep running yourself down like this, Jiaoqiu.”
Jiaoqiu felt the broth searing into his tongue now. There was no taste.
You can’t keep running yourself down like this, Jiaoqiu echoed in his mind, and something in his chest gave.
Didn’t Moze understand? Did anyone understand? He couldn’t take care of himself. He was the care. Every sleepless night, every tear shed in silence, every soldier pulled from the frontlines, was his to shoulder, his pain to carry so nobody else had to. Without that burden, what would be left of him?
He hollowed himself out for his work, ripped his heart out of his chest and held it out on a platter for grief and anger and frustration to consume. He couldn’t admit it was killing him; the entire edifice would collapse. He wasn’t Jiaoqiu the foxian, he was Jiaoqiu the doctor.
A healer could never heal himself.
His spoon clattered down against the table, and he choked out a humorless laugh at the futility of it all. “Running myself down…” he repeated. “Do you think I chose all of this?”
Moze’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
Jiaoqiu’s pulse was starting to spike. Suddenly he couldn’t take a deep breath in and words were pouring out in a deluge. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s doing to me? That I enjoy waking up to an empty bed and coming home feeling like I have cement in my shoes?”
His hands started to twitch.
“If I stop- if I even slow down- then what am I? Tell me, Moze? What’ll be left?”
The silence pressed heavy, crushing both of their shoulders under such imposing weight. Moze looked at him, amethyst eyes steady and unflinching, but the tightness of his jaw betrayed him. He was swallowing something back.
“You’re more than your work.” Moze’s low voice started, finally, as if he had spent a long time considering the right words to say. “You’re-”
“Don’t.” The word was sharp and immediate, halting the shadow guard in his tracks. The soft pink fur on the foxian’s ears was now bristled, and he shot to his feet, the legs of his chair grating against the floor. “Don’t feed me that lie. You just stand at your post and follow whatever orders. You don’t feel what I feel, watching, drowning in all of it.” He wasn’t making sense. “You have no idea what any of it is like.”
Moze’s lips parted, but he didn’t answer. He only watched, his eyes glazed over with detachment, shoulders squared like a shoulder standing at attention. And somehow, the silence hurt more and Jiaoqiu wished Moze would just yell back and tell him how he’s tired too and that it’s all too much and how he wishes he left when he had the chance.
The silence stretched until Jiaoqiu realized his chest was heaving and he was breathing too hard. The broth sat at the table, cooling and untouched. It no longer released any steam into the air.
Moze reached out, slowly and deliberately, and set a hand over the foxian’s wrist. His palm was warm and steady. Jiaoqiu flinched, but his partner’s grip didn’t waver. Slowly, he let himself be anchored in the touch.
“You’re tired.” Moze whispered. There was no reproach or pity, only fact. “Sit down.”
Jiaoqiu wanted to rip his hand free, to run away and yell at Moze about how he couldn’t possibly understand until his throat was hoarse and he had no more sorrow and anger in his frail body. But the ground underneath him felt like it was tilting in the same way it did when he first set foot on a battlefield, and Moze’s hand was the only steady point left.
And once more, Jiaoqiu remembered how worn his body was and how weary his mind was. He sunk back into the chair, shoulders caved in on themselves. The chair creaked under the weight of his tired body. He hated the way he needed Moze’s hand around his wrist just so he could remember where the ground beneath him was.
Some “healer” he was.
When Moze gently released his grip, drawing his hand back with the same quiet precision, Jiaoqiu’s chest twisted. His skin instantly registered the loss of warmth, and his ears flattened, shame forming a lump in his throat.
Once more the room was silent. The broth still sat on the table, steam having long faded.
“I didn’t…” Jiaoqiu swallowed hard, wanting to pick up the pieces of whatever broke inside him as quickly as possible. For all of this to be over, and he could become the poised, quick-minded healer again, who was loved by many for being both cunning and gentle. Not the sniveling mess that could barely tell where he was without clinging onto Moze.
“I didn’t mean that.” Jiaoqiu swallowed hard, desperately wanting to push away the shame burning a hole in his throat. “I don’t…” his voice was cracked now, softer, frayed along the edges. “I don’t think that you don’t understand.”
He broke off, dragging a hand to his face. “I say things when I’m tired. Stupid things. I know that isn’t an excuse. But don’t listen to me.”
Moze didn’t move at first. His gaze remained unwavering, but Jiaoqiu saw the tension in his jaw. The crow-like man was hurting, too. But he chose to bottle it and seal it shut, tucking it away in the depths of his mind, praying he would never have to touch it again.
“You’re not stupid.” Moze said finally, voice even but low. “You’re hurting.”
The simple truth of it all made Jiaoqiu wince as if someone had laid him bare for the world to see. He leaned forward, amber eyes barely meeting Moze’s. His ears were trembling ever-so slightly.
“I don’t want you to think… I don’t want you to think I don’t need you.”
Moze’s gaze softened, just barely. “I know.”
Jiaoqiu’s chest pulled tight. He wanted to say more. He was known for being silver tongued, for spinning a story to get himself out of any situation. But here, where it mattered most, his words utterly failed him. He wanted Moze to understand that he wasn’t trying to push him away, especially when it had taken so long for Moze to let him in. He just didn’t know how to carry the weight of the burden he had chosen.
Instead, his hands trembled around the spoon as he pushed more broth into his mouth. He welcomed the burning blossoming on his tongue, just needing something to feel. Pain would suffice. Moze reached across the table again, brushing Jiaoqiu’s knuckles.
The foxian’s eyes stung, but he didn’t flinch, nor pull away.
“I’ll eat.” He whispered, more to himself than to Moze. “I’ll eat, I’ll eat.”
And Moze nodded softly. That would be enough.
—---------
The house is still now. Porcelain broth bowls lay stacked near the sink, each one shining spotlessly, ready to be tucked away in the cupboard. Noises of the surrounding city hummed in the background, and Jiaoqiu let himself be comforted by the soft sounds of cars passing and the occasional call of mourning doves, reminding him gently that life moved on and he didn’t have to save everybody. He prayed silently that every person in every passing car would never have to be acquainted with him or his hands that brought nothing but inevitable pain.
Still, tension built up by years of exhaustion would not be drained from his body after one outburst and following moment of respite, and guilt was a new accompaniment to the tension carried in his body. He was rarely one to lose his composure. The Jiaoqiu the world knew had a smile plastered onto his face, who shouldered the burdens of others with open arms. To the world, he never faltered.
Yet here he was, sitting rigid on the edge of the bed. His hair was mussed, and he couldn’t be bothered to take off his whitecoat. He didn’t quite know what he was staring at, but his mind was buzzing with thoughts like a swarm of insects that he knew any attempt at sleep would be futile.
He was brought back to reality by the sound of weight occupying the space of the bed next to him. His ears perk slightly, and the weight of Moze’s observant gaze lies on his back.
Jiaoqiu doesn’t turn, but he mumbles, “You should sleep.”
He wants to say so much more. To apologize again, to acknowledge that Moze is hurting just as much, if not more than Jiaoqiu. He just carried it differently. To beg Moze not to leave him alone no matter how much he kicks and screams and pushes.
No words come out, but the two have long passed the need for words. Moze was a man of few words, and Jiaoqiu a man of too many empty ones. Jiaoqiu feels a pair of familiar arms snake around his shoulders, and feels Moze’s chin resting on his shoulder. With Moze’s chest against his back, he can feel the man’s steady heartbeat.
Moze was alive, and would continue to be alive. Jiaoqiu didn’t need to save him. His tail twitches, but he eventually collapses into the touch. He turns his head and buries it in the crook of Moze’s neck, breathing against his scarred skin.
The foxian takes his hands up to meet Moze’s, gripping them, tighter and tighter. If he let go for one second, the shadow guard might vanish into thin air. He wants to carve the words he cannot say into Moze’s skin, that was already carved with endless scars whispering countless stories. Moze’s body carried the pain of years spent in the unforgiving jaws of war. Both bodies kept score.
“Hi,” Moze whispered.
“Hey.” Jiaoqiu responded.
The crow felt the slight tremor in the foxian’s grip. At this point Jiaoqiu was not just holding the other man, but clinging to him, tethering himself to him as if by sheer will. His delicate fingers dug into Moze’s skin, like Jiaoqiu could stitch the space between the two together.
Moze never knew what to say in moments like these. He had trained himself to be a man of few words and desires. The only desires he was supposed to carry were those of his superiors, only speaking to acknowledge their beck and call.
Moze’s breath stirred against peach colored hair. “I’m right here,” he said simply, steady voice betraying his lingering anxiety.
He was no good at poetic declarations. He wishes that he could make a production, to promise Jiaoqiu forever and that with some combination of the right words all of the man’s pain could be chased away. For now though, he hoped that his actions could speak for him. It’s all he felt he had. It’s all he felt he could give .
Jiaoqiu’s ears tickled Moze’s cheek as the foxian pressed himself further into Moze’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of musk and clean linen.
Moze shifted, and slid his arms under Jiaoqiu’s shoulders, carrying the smaller man fully into his lap. The bed dipped under their combined weight. The foxian tensed, fragile pride sparking faintly at being treated like something fragile, but he knew he forgot his pride long ago. The exhaustion in his bones won out, and he let himself collapse into Moze.
For a long while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, as Jiaoqiu listened to Moze’s heartbeat steady on his back, felt the rise and fall of his strong chest, the warmth of life carried by Moze’s hands bracketing his own. Moze was here. He was alive.
Finally, the words slipped out of Jiaoqiu’s mouth, like a dirty confession. “If I don’t have this…” Jiaoqiu started, gesturing to his whitecoat. “And if I don’t have you… I don’t know what I am.”
The statement sat between them, naked and ugly for both of them to see. Jiaoqiu’s ears flattened and shame started to pool in his chest. He could’ve kept quiet and savored whatever moment they were having, but some destructive urge won out and he wanted to spill his guts all over again.
But Moze didn’t argue. He didn’t give some speech about how Jiaoqiu was more than his work or his love. They both knew it was pointless. He couldn’t be reshaped into something stronger.
Moze simply took the statement and buried it with the rest of the hurt that marred his skin with scars and gnawed at his mind, sealing it deep into himself. He held Jiaoqiu tighter, pressing his lips to the top of Jiaoqiu’s untidy hair, peppering his head with kisses.
Jiaoqiu tilts his weight toward the bed, pulling Moze to lay down with him. Ungracefully, he rolls over so him and his partner are facing one another, amber eyes meeting lilac. Jiaoqiu inches his forehead to Moze’s, pressing it against his. He can feel Moze’s breath, rhythmic inhales and exhales, against his cheeks.
Moze once again wraps strong arms around the small of Jiaoqiu’s back, as if trying to hold him together. Perhaps if Moze held the pieces tight enough, the doctor wouldn’t unravel again.
The training etched into Moze’s head was simple. To be invisible and dependable. To never be seen yet to always be ready to neutralize any threat toward those he was suited to protect. Yet Jiaoqiu is staring at Moze like he’s the whole entire world. They both need each other to feel like real human beings. Moze doesn’t want to unpack that tonight.
His attention is piqued back into reality as Jiaoqiu tilts his head just so, the corner of his mouth quirking. “What a tragedy,” he murmurs, his normal sing-song cadence faintly making its way back into his voice. “My dear, stalwart shadow guard, trained to disappear into the walls, to escape any obstacle, caught in the snare of my bed. Not invisible at all.”
The teasing is light, but perhaps a little glib. This was always what followed after the initial storm had calmed. Jiaoqiu would feign normalcy, his usual smirks and teases, until eventually it became a reality again, and both would never speak of whatever confessions were uttered and tears were shed the night before. Jiaoqiu’s smirk was still fragile.
Warm amber eyes faintly glimmered in the light, as Jiaoqiu’s finger traced Moze’s lips. “So serious all the time…” he whispered, finger tracing down to Moze’s jaw. “Makes me want to ruin you a little.”
Moze exhales through his nose. If it were any other time, it could have been a laugh, but weariness tainted the sound. He doesn’t move away, but he knows now isn’t the time to entertain the foxian. Instead, he slides his hand up to Jiaoqiu’s delicate shoulderblade, tracing gentle shapes in an attempt to ground his partner.
Jiaoqiu leans in closer, brushing his nose against Moze’s. His tail is twitching restlessly behind him, betraying his feigned composure, even if his words are smooth and sharp as honeyed medicine. “Look at you holding me together. Maybe you should be the doctor instead of me, keeping me alive like this.”
Moze doesn’t pull away, nor does he lean forward. “Maybe I am.”
Something flickers in Jiaoqiu’s expression, but he quickly swallows it down, pulling Moze in, brushing their lips for a fleeting, chaste kiss.
“Well, a good doctor doesn’t leave his patients alone,” Jiaoqiu teased, but under that was an edge of sincerity, silently asking Moze to affirm he would stay.
“I’d never dream of it.” Moze responds, plainly, with the same tone he uses to state all his other observations. To Moze, it’s like stating fact.
Jiaoqiu’s smirk lingered, a touch crooked. “Perhaps I should keep you here forever,” he mused, his voice lilting a tad playfully. “A caged crow. Whatever would you do?”
Moze replied with a slow blink, rolling the jab off like rainwater on metal. However, the corners of his lips twitched fondly, subtle enough that untrained eyes would miss it.
“Ah, don’t look at me like that.” Jiaoqiu sighed dramatically, amber eyes narrowing with a glint of mischief. His fingers traced along the seam of Moze’s collar. “Perhaps it’s my solemn duty to wipe that stern expression off your face.”
Moze’s chest rose with a measured inhale. “You would,” he murmured.
Jiaoqiu returned the statement with a small laugh, and Moze could hear the soft thump of his tail once again betraying the foxian’s suave composure. He leaned in and closed their lips again, lingering longer and stirring heat between them.
“Then let me,” he whispered against Moze’s mouth, playfulness melting into something needier.
Jiaoqiu pulled back and started to work his way to Moze’s jaw, pressing his lips against the scarred skin. He pulls back and stares at Moze with an expectant gaze, smirk lingering. But Moze knows the foxian is still barely keeping himself together, and it’s clear from the waver in his eyes and the slight tremors in his voice.
Moze studies him in silence, the way he always does. But instead of taking the bait, he simply brushes his thumb against Jiaoqiu’s cheek thoughtfully, like tracing a piece of fine artwork.
“Not tonight,” Moze says gently, without reprimand or sharpness.
For a moment, Jiaoqiu’s lips part as if he’s about to argue, or spill another quip, but they both know this is for the better. Moze shifts them down into the pillows and tucks Jiaoqiu into his chest with measured, careful strength. And the healer allows himself to be taken care of, burrowing his face into Moze’s neck, clinging tighter as if ensuring that the shadow guard won’t slip away.
Moze returns Jiaoqiu’s grip, holding the foxian tighter, one hand splayed along delicate shoulderblades while the other cards through messy peach hair. His heartbeat once again offers Jiaoqiu a steady, quiet rhythm.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Moze repeats, after careful consideration, low enough that the confession disappears into the mess of Jiaoqiu’s hair. “Not for anything.”
And for the first time that night, Jiaoqiu gives himself permission to finally relax. His grip loosens by degrees as exhaustion takes him under, and his breath slowly evens out against Moze’s collarbone. The foxian’s sharp tongue, silvered words and knowing smirks are silent, and his face looks peaceful.
Moze stays awake. He’s always stayed awake. Years of standing at posts, of watching unseen in the night with vigilant eyes have trained his body to refuse rest. The doctor looks so small like this, fragile in a way unseen to everyone but Moze. To think such a body promised to carry the weight of the world. But the crow knows that the fox will wake again, smile fixed on his face, with sharp wits and bristling pride. The shadow guard will follow as he always does, silent and shouldering pain without remark. That’s their rhythm.
Still, with Jiaoqiu pressed against him, Moze’s hand lingers in pink hair. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the foxian’s temple.
And though Moze will likely endure another sleepless night, seeing the figure of his partner peacefully resting on him is more than enough.