Archive of Our Own

Jiaoqiu felt as though he’d adapted quite well to losing his sight, when all was said and done. He missed it, certainly, and of course there had been a harsh learning curve, but he felt fine more often than not. He had great hearing, a strong sense of smell. The loss of one sense, when he still had all his best, didn’t feel too great a loss, comparatively.

But when he was away from the commotion of the city and the bustle of its streets, when it was him in silence with no sounds to anchor him to the world around… That was when he began to feel… nervous.

He was in his garden. He was safe within the familiar walls of his courtyard. He knew this space as well as he knew his own hands. 

That didn’t help. Without being able to look around and prove it, without voices around to situate him, he could just as well be floating around in an abyss. It was unnerving, even on a good day. 

But that was why he was there… or should be, anyway.

“Moze?” Jiaoqiu called, chiding himself silently for the hesitation that wavered through his voice. 

“Here,” came Moze’s reply, closer than Jiaoqiu could have hoped. If he wanted to, he would probably be able to reach out and touch him. Jiaoqiu’s anxiety faded, ebbing away like a waning tide. 

“Moze,” he repeated, tilting a smile towards where he heard his response. “We’re in my courtyard.”

It wasn’t a question, not technically, but Moze indulged him nonetheless. “Mm. By the pond.”

Of course. There was no waterfall or stream, no sound of running water, but Jiaoqiu knew he’d walked from his door and down the path, knew he’d taken a few steps off to the paving stones that led to the calm water where his fish swam. There was a small platform there for meditating, reading, working, or simply enjoying the beautiful tableau of his garden on a still, autumn day.

Not that he could read or view the scenery anymore. But he still enjoyed it, as long as he remembered where he was. 

“It’s nice here, is it not?” Jiaoqiu asked, lifting his chin, searching for the warmth of the sun behind the hazy clouds. “Calm.”

“Calm,” Moze agreed. “Very quiet.”

Jiaoqiu snorted a small laugh. “Very quiet,” he acknowledged wryly. “My companion doesn’t help matters. Moze could stand to make noise when he breathes, perhaps.”

Moze’s deafening silence was answer enough regarding his thoughts on that particular matter. Jiaoqiu supposed a lifetime of training couldn’t be so easily abandoned. Fair enough.

“Maybe a deerscare,” Jaioqiu mused out loud. “What do you think, Moze?”

Moze grunted quietly, but Jiaoqiu thought it sounded like a positive grunt. A go-for-it kind of grunt. 

Moze could tell, Jiaoqiu knew, that Jiaoqiu was disturbed by the silence. He’d learned that in quiet moments, Jiaoqiu called for him more frequently, searching for reminders of the physical plane, for connection points to the world his body resided in even if it sometimes felt like the rest of him was floating elsewhere. 

But Moze wasn’t good at talking about things like that. Jiaoqiu knew it. Moze didn’t know if it was okay to mention this particular weakness, this helpless vulnerability, when for him such a thing would be unfathomable. Aeons forbid anyone pointed out a chink in Moze’s armor, even if it was with the intention to help him fill it; the poor man would die from shame. 

Jiaoqiu wasn’t about to go begging for help, but he wasn’t quite so thin of face that he couldn’t acknowledge his own shortcomings. “It’d be nice,” he ventured. “Or windchimes. Bring a little life to the garden.”

“Noise,” Moze said, but it wasn’t a no. Jiaoqiu settled back with a smile.

The Commission was often bustling, many of its facilities constantly occupied for this or that matter by some lively group of scholars or politicians. It was nice, in many ways, that Jiaoqiu could still make his way around and know where he was by just the overlapping discussions happening around him. 

The Ranzhi School’s buildings, however, were often quiet. There were few healers, and many of them were either off in the field practicing, or out gathering ingredients and recipes in the world, the better to experiment with. Still, it was rare for them to be quite so silent. 

Jiaoqiu’s footsteps felt too loud, and they unnerved him into stillness after a few echoing beats. There were no other signs of life. 

Jiaoqiu’s ears flicked back. Behind him, his tail twitched. “Moze?”

“Here,” Moze replied quietly, only a few steps behind. Jiaoiqu let out a quiet, relieved breath. 

“Do you operate under a different gravity than the rest of us, dear Moze?” Jiaoqiu chided. “Most people have the decency to make noise when they walk.”

“Most people make poor assassins,” Moze replied pointedly. 

Jiaoqiu smiled at that. “Put those blades away, Moze. Come help me find a cauldron. This old fox has work to do.”

Moze didn’t reply, but Jiaoqiu felt the passing brush of his cloak, a reassurance of his presence that Jiaoqiu knew to be intentional; Moze would never let such a thing happen by accident. 

Jiaoqiu followed in the direction of the fabric’s trail, his steps careful, until Moze told him to stop.

“What size?” Moze asked, somewhere to the left of him. 

“A little one will do. Thank you, Moze.”

The cauldron made a quiet thunk when Moze set it atop the burner, letting Jiaoqiu locate it more precisely and shuffle closer. The cast iron was cool and solid under his hand when he felt its shape. 

“Perfect. Now, I think we’ll start with some chilis… Moze, will you get some for me? Three, to start.”

Moze did what he asked, but not without a decent amount of under his breath muttering about spice addling Jiaoqiu’s brain, or something to that effect. 

Jiaoqiu didn’t mind. As long as Moze kept talking, he was happy.

Feixiao was always a welcome visitor. She was rambunctious, and sometimes forgot about Jiaoqiu’s blindness, but Jiaoqiu didn’t mind. He enjoyed the liveliness she brought with her, and the way she treated him as she always had, not with any of the awkward half-hidden pity that so many others did. 

They drank, they ate, they made merry. Feixiao recounted her adventures and picked fights with Moze, Jiaoqiu grilled skewered fish until his nose told him they were done, the three of them went through more than one or two jars of wine.

“I have to set off tomorrow,” Feixiao finally sighed, stumbling audibly as she got to her feet. “Jiaoqiu, where’s your hangover cure?”

“Hmm?” Jiaoqiu asked innocently. “This humble healer recommends a generous portion of spice to burn out the alcohol.”

“I’m not drinking chili oil again, you rat,” Feixiao barked, already helping herself to Jiaoqiu’s medicine cabinet. She made a triumphant sound when she found what she was looking for, and Jiaoqiu hid a smile behind his fan. She could take the hangover cure if she wanted. It was mostly chili oil, after all.

The silence only settled after she’d left. 

Jiaoqiu didn’t drink often—not to the point of drunkenness anyway—but when he did, he found that the world felt a little bigger around him. A little emptier. Maybe it had been nice, back when he’d had his sight, to feel like there was just that much more space around him, but now, when he already lived each day so unsure of the world, the distance only felt isolating.

But there was one thing he could always rely on to ground him. 

“Moze?”

There was no answer, and Jiaoqiu grew still, ears straining for any sound, though Moze was always silent.

“Moze?” he tried again, ears swiveling atop his head. “Are you there?”

A hand landed on his hair, between his ears, and then a warm, solid body dropped by his side. Jiaoqiu felt the tension bleed from him all at once and he leaned into the touch. 

“Moze,” he said happily. “Hello.”

“Jiaoqiu,” Moze said, his voice quiet and soft. This was when Jiaoqiu loved him most. Moments like these, when Moze allowed himself to put aside the imagined drapings of propriety, allowed himself to be just a man instead of a tool, a weapon. 

“Did you have fun?” Jiaoqiu asked, turning his face in towards the high neck of Moze’s shirt. “Did you eat enough?”

“Mm,” Moze hummed, the vibration of it soft against Jiaoqiu’s nose where it pressed to his throat. “Did you burn your fingers on the grill?”

Jiaoqiu giggled, holding out his hand for Moze to examine. He felt those callused fingers gently wrap around his own, tilting them this way and that. “Only a little,” he admitted. “I have ointment. I just missed the skewer a little, that’s all.”

Moze didn’t offer to cook instead. Jiaoqiu loved him. Instead, Moze brought Jiaoqiu’s hand up and softly kissed the little burns on his fingertips, but yet blistered but threatening to. “I’ll get it.”

“Not yet,” Jiaoqiu asked, curling his hand around Moze’s in turn and holding him in place. “Stay here a while.”

Moze stayed where he was, playing with Jiaoqiu’s hand between his own. Jiaoqiu felt warm inside and he knew it could barely be blamed on the wine. 

“Moze,” he said after a while, mostly just to feel the shape of his name on his lips. 

Moze responded with another kiss to his hand. Jiaoqiu smiled.

“Moze?”

Another kiss, on the inside of his wrist. 

“Mo-ze,” he crooned. 

Moze released one hand in order to grab hold of Jiaoqiu’s face and pull him free of where he’d nuzzled into his neck. The next kiss landed on Jiaoqiu’s smiling lips.

Jiaoqiu let himself be kissed for a long time, being little more than a passive participant for as long as Moze was willing to take the lead. But when Moze began to get a little nibbly, his kisses turning into needy nips at Jiaoqiu’s lips, Jiaoqiu knew his patience had worn thin.

“Perfect Moze,” he praised, feeling full and held by Moze’s presence, by the fact that there were things Moze needed from him, not just the other way around. 

Moze’s little huff of air was as entitled as it was endearing, and Jiaoqiu twisted to get a better angle, to kiss him back the way he wanted.

“That’s it,” Jiaoqiu murmured as he took Moze’s face in the palms of his hands and Moze melted into the touch. Jiaoqiu didn’t need sight to kiss him. He knew this man, he knew his face and his lips and the taste of him. He knew how to touch him to make him as soft and helpless as a little kit, all those deadly edges of his filed away for Jiaoqiu’s pleasure. He knew how to explore him with feather light touches, making his skin pebble and his muscles quiver in want as Jiaoqiu found what he was searching for.

He didn’t need his eyes to tell him that Moze was right there, always there, always his. 

When he drew back, lips nearly sore from kissing, it was Moze’s turn to curl into him. Jiaoqiu held him gladly. He could never feel lost with Moze in his arms like this. 

“Shall we go to bed, my Moze?”

Moze hummed quietly, then searched around for Jiaoqiu’s injured hand and cradled it to his chest. “Oinment,” he reminded Jiaoqiu. He was probably aiming for sternness, but he reminded Jiaoqiu of a fox kit like this, all curled up and clinging. Still, he was impossible not to indulge, Jiaoqiu thought with a smile.

“Oinment,” he agreed, “and then bed. Come on, lead the way.”

It was easy, with Moze, to let himself be vulnerable. To be as he was. Just as Moze could trust that Jiaoqiu would never hurt him. Jiaoqiu could step forward blindly, trusting that Moze would always guide him.