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When they tottered inside the entrance hall of Four Seasons Manor after Ye Baiyi had so thoroughly and almost depressingly easily defeated first Zhou Zishu and then, more alarmingly, Wen Kexing, who could be said was at the peak of his pugilist powers, the house was silent. Of course it was silent: Chengling was asleep. How could he not be, after Zhou Zishu wore him out all day practicing steps and mnemonic rhymes and figuring out the Longyuan cabinet’s secrets. He was probably dreaming about Winter Solstice with a smile on his face, eagerly anticipating Ye Baiyi’s arrival.
The adorable, clueless little idiot.
What if, Wen Kexing thought, what if Zhou Zishu hadn’t been able to sway Ye Baiyi’s intentions? What if he’d simply killed Wen Kexing for his sins and, since Zhou Zishu had made it abundantly clear he was prepared to die with him if that was the old Monster’s decision, Zhou Zishu as well? Then Chengling would have got up in the morning, expecting breakfast to be either ready or still being prepared and entering the kitchen to chat with Wen Kexing as he cooked porridge and steal berries and generally be a kid—but finding the kitchen empty, the stove cold. He’d look around the house, wondering where his Shifu and Shishu had gone, and find himself abandoned. He would probably tell himself that they’d gone out for some kind of reason. Maybe because they felt like sparring for a little. Or because Zhou Zishu had received a message from Ye Baiyi, who, after all, was a kindly old Monster as far as Chengling was concerned. He’d look for a note and find none. And then, after a few hours, perhaps even a day of waiting, he’d go out into the woods and find their bodies lying side by side on the ground, cold and damp with dew, hair coarse like twine and eyes dull and lifeless like marbles. Perhaps already eaten by some kind of bird…
He released Zhou Zishu, pushing him away so he wouldn’t drag him down when his knees buckled and he sagged to the floor, one hand pressed against his mouth to keep from vomiting, or screaming, or moaning aloud.
“Wen Kexing?” Zhou Zishu asked, and that name was like a slap in the face, even though it really was his name and he was proud to bear it, and he only used it because he’d used it to tease him before. The mighty Wen Kexing, all powerful Chief of Ghost Valley. What an unbelievable failure. “Lao Wen?” he said, softly, and touched his shoulder with his good hand. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” he whispered. He swallowed down bile. “Fine.” Just a harmless little flashback. Nostalgia in its finest form. This time the only pain he felt was in his heart, as the memory had fully returned to him. Yes, he recalled exactly what it felt like to find your parents slaughtered and your life and sanity breaking into little pieces.
He made himself smile. After all, they hadn’t been killed. Chengling wasn’t an orphan twice over. As a matter of fact, he considered, looking up at the man who was studying him with such a worried expression, this mutual little failure to protect one another had taught him a couple of infinitely valuable truths.
One: A-Xu was willing to defend his actions, no matter how sinful, to an ancient like Ye Baiyi.
Two: A-Xu was willing to die for him, even though he knew Wen Kexing was the Chief of Ghost Valley, and had known for some time.
Three: A-Xu was willing to die with him, which, although Wen Kexing would do anything and everything to keep him alive, filled his heart with an emotion he couldn’t really describe—something that made every single bit of his skin tingle with happiness and also made him want to cry until his eyes ran dry.
And four…: Ye Baiyi had pardoned him. Sure, there were restrictions and he wasn’t completely sure he was ready to give up on revenge entirely, but as long as he didn’t use the Ghosts, he was allowed to live. Here, in Four Seasons Manor with A-Xu and Chengling. He felt a pang of regret he’d sent A-Xiang away, but she was probably better off with Cao Weining. The fact that he needed A-Xiang did not mean she needed him, at least not in a similar way. She may think she needed him, but all he’d taught her was to be a Ghost. It was high time someone taught her to be human. As for him…He had his little found family to teach him.
“What are you smiling about?” Zhou Zishu asked, his own mouth curved in a smile as well but with a certain edge to his voice. “Did he hit you so hard you have brain damage now?” He tipped up Wen Kexing’s chin with a callused finger. “I only see bruises on your face.”
“A-Xu,” Wen Kexing chastised, “The torrents destroyed the mountains, the flood has drowned the land; birds lay scattered in the mud, a rainbow embraces the heavens.”
“My shoulder has all the colours of the rainbow,” Zhou Zishu muttered, untouched by the beauty of the poem. He untied the sash around his waist and gingerly pulled at his sleeve to get a look at his arm. Wen Kexing stopped him.
“Wait. Let me.” He tilted his palm and directed his qi into Zhou Zishu’s body—at least, that was his intention, but instead of the warm flow of energy outward, his energy reversed like water falling back on itself in a swinging pail and a shockwave of pain ran from his chest to his back, almost as if Ye Baiyi hit him again right there. Blood flooded his throat and he coughed, sending it splattering all over the floor.
“Ahh. Aah? What the hell?”
For a second, Zhou Zishu looked just as dumb-struck as he was himself, but then he grasped Wen Kexing’s wrist and felt his pulse. “Don’t try to transfer your qi or refocus it,” he said. “He used the Hand of Sealing Twelve Paths on you. He did the same to me.”
Wen Kexing blinked. “He blocked my meridians?! No, he didn’t use his hand; he kicked me.” And because he loved A-Xu to the death but didn’t trust his word until it was double proven right, he sent out a tendril of power again, with the same bloody result.
“What the hell did I just tell you?” Zhou Zishu said angrily, as Wen Kexing hacked blood into his hands, “Don’t do that, you’ll only cause yourself internal injuries. Who knows what Senior Ye can do, and whether he needs his hands or his feet? Don’t touch me, you’ll get blood all over my clothes.” He flounced off in an unsteady lurch, found a piece of cloth and threw it onto Wen Kexing’s lap. “Aiya, foolish Shidi. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you leaving with your cloak? As if there’s no one here who’d bury you? Damn it, Lao Wen!” His voice rose in anger and he raised his hand to point at him—and moved his injured shoulder and blanched. Wen Kexing, wiping the last bit of blood off his palm, hastily got to his feet to steady him.
“Alright, alright, I was stupid and selfish. I should’ve known you wanted to share my death,” he said, and gently lowered Zhou Zishu into a chair. Even voicing those words made his insides flutter, even though it was probably unhealthy to feel this way about that level of dedication. “I’m sorry I took my cloak. Next time I go out to meet my fate I’ll do so stark naked and uncombed, just so you can…ughh…dress me in white and dig a grave for me.” He wheezed, one hand pressed against his aching chest, and painfully dropped into the chair next to Zhou Zishu.
“I don’t want to dig a grave for you, you insensitive bastard,” Zhou Zishu snarled. “Didn’t I just tell you not a week ago how sick and tired I was of burying everyone I love?”
“Well I don’t want to die, so that makes two of us,” Wen Kexing snapped back. Then he smirked. “So…you love me?”
“That’s not what I said,” grumbled Zhou Zishu.
“Actually, you did. Just now.”
“I’ll take it back.” But he didn’t.
They rested for a while in companiable silence, gathering their strength to start inventorying their wounds. Zhou Zishu sat with his eyes closed. He was very pale in the dappled moonlight. Wen Kexing touched his arm. “Go to the bedroom. I’ll get bandages. You should be treated before midnight.” Before the nails started to hurt.
Zhou Zishu grimaced. “Mm. No. You don’t know what’s what and where it’s stocked. I’ll fetch the medicine, you heat up some water. And perhaps some wine. With heat, not your qi!”
He leaned forward, groaning, and pushed himself to his feet. Wen Kexing followed suit. When the latter dragged himself, a kettle of water and two warm wine jugs into the bedroom, Zhou Zishu was already undressed to his inner layer and in the process of taking his shirt off.
Wen Kexing grinned, and took a swig from one of the jugs. “I could get used to this view.”
“Your husband all beaten up on your account? You damned sadist.”
“I never asked you to take a beating on my account,” Wen Kexing said pleasantly. “I’d much rather beat you myself.” Zhou Zishu shot him a look, and he hastily added, “In fair hand to hand combat. Really, A-Xu, do you honestly think I take pleasure in your pain?” He placed one of the jugs in front of the other man and began to take off his own clothes. The dramatic white-and-red pao, perfect for dying in, the white middle layer and skirt. Even the thin inner robe that covered his zhongyi. Then, he made sure that the braziers were all burning. He himself was used to the cold, but Zhou Zishu always surrounded himself with heat, perhaps because it diminished the pain of the nails.
The nails. He could see the scars they’d left. Even now, after all this time, seeing those pink marks upset him more than any other injury the man might sustain.
“Right then,” he said, and sat down on the edge of Zhou Zishu’s bed so he could take a look at his shoulder. How far they’d come in their relationship that Zhou Zishu would let him treat his injuries. Before, he’d always tried to push him away, take care of it himself. It was yet another point of gratefulness, to be trusted enough to be allowed to help—even if he were the direct cause of these injuries. He very softly ran his fingers over the other man’s flesh.
Zhou Zishu, below the layers of his clothing, was very thin. It always came as a bit of a surprise to see how skinny he’d become, although it shouldn’t be, really, because he barely ate anything, even when Wen Kexing heaped his bowl full of the tastiest morsels he could cook. But even though A-Xu’s increasing gauntness was slightly worrying, Wen Kexing didn’t think it marred his beauty. The elegance of his bone structure was only enhanced by the lack of padding. His muscles ran like ropes over his beautiful bones, belying the strength he still had. The flat of Ye Baiyi’s sword had hit him just below the swell of his shoulder muscle, creating a blade-shaped indentation that stood out in deep purple. The edges had begun to swell and had discoloured to a rapidly darkening red. At the top of the swelling, the blade had hit hard enough to cut the skin.
“Can you move your fingers?”
Zhou Zishu balled his fist, wincing. “Yes. It hurts, but not so much I can’t move them.”
“Then it’s probably not broken, or only lightly fractured.” He carefully rubbed some ointment onto the bruises, cleaned the abrasions and wrapped the arm in bandages. Then he selected a few straight sticks Zhou Zishu had also brought from the medicine cabinet and splinted his upper arm, making sure to keep enough cloth between the twigs and the sprain. Then he put his hand on the man’s shoulder and directed his qi into the meridian there—and bent over in agony, coughing blood all over his nice white sleeves.
“I told you not to do that,” Zhou Zishu said calmly. “I brought more handkerchiefs; there’re right there.”
“How long is…” He gagged, spitting pink spit into the cloth, “how long’s this last?” His chest and back ached abominably until his inner force quieted down again.
“Not long. Until morning perhaps? It’s a bit like sealing acupoints, only more centralized. Keeps people from using qinggong and non-weaponized attacks.“ Like Wen Kexing favoured. He knew how to use blades, but qi was so much more versatile. To him, this was indeed an all-powerful defence. “He wasn’t trying to kill us,” Zhou Zishu mused. “Not really, not then.” He smirked. “If you can keep from spreading your qi all over the place, you should be fine.”
With a jolt, Wen Kexing noticed the ‘you’ in the sentence. “What…” he wiped the blood from his lips, “What about you? When the nails start acting up, you…”
“I guess we’ll find out later,” Zhou Zishu said. He gingerly moved his arm. “Thank you, this feels a lot better.”
“Don’t move it, keep it close to your body. You’ll need a sling.”
“Hn. Show me your back.” Obediently, Wen Kexing turned around, lowered his shirt and took a swig of wine to drown the taste of blood in his mouth. “Ah nice.”
“What?”
“He drew a cock and balls on your back in bruises.”
“WHAT?” He tried to look over his own shoulder at his back, but this was impossible because his ribs protested fiercely and even if they hadn’t, he wouldn’t be able to see anything.
Zhou Zishu’s voice was quivering with amusement but his fingers were soft as ash as they traced she shape on his back. Wherever he touched, Wen Kexing’s skin sang a chorus of agony and pleasure. “Here’s the shaft where he hit you with the flat of his blade. Nice, clean edges, no blood. And here he hit you with the balls of his feet, here and here. And his heel here, I think, to form the head. It’s turning purple. It’s pretty accurate.”
“I will kill him,” Wen Kexing gritted out, all earlier gratitude towards the old Monster forgotten, and despite himself started projecting Chief of the Valley. His qi surged, fell in on itself and sent a bolt of pain through his torso. “Aaagh!” he choked, spitting red droplets onto his knees. “That motherfucking geriatric asshole! I’ll tear his fucking spine out!” And then, when Lunatic Wen truly manifested in all his dark energy-generating glory, his blocked meridians finally had enough and sent such a punishing counter surge of internal energy through his chest he vomited up half a pot of blood and had no choice but to hunch up around his knees and concentrate on not blacking out.
“Lao Wen?” He became aware of a hand stroking his hair, over and over, like a pet, or a small child. “Lao Wen, are you alright?”
He unfolded from his tightly curled up position next to the bed. Nodded. His chest and back were aching. The hand didn’t stop stroking. “I can’t help it,” he whispered.
“I know,” Zhou Zishu said gently. “Turn around. Ah hell, you look like a slaughterhouse.”
“I’ll put on clean clothes,” Wen Kexing muttered. All of a sudden, he was feeling incredibly tired. “You should get some rest, anyway.” He scrubbed at his chin, flinching as he rubbed the bruise on the right side of his mouth.
“No,” said Zhou Zishu. “Just take them off.” And when Wen Kexing stared at him with eyebrows curved to perfect bows, “If you’re prepared to meet your death stark naked, you can sleep naked, too.”
Wen Kexing scoffed. “A-Xu. Only you would pick the only night I’m not in the mood to—what is it?” he interrupted himself, as Zhou Zishu’s body seemed to ripple and his face lost even the little bit of colour it had regained in the warmth of the room. “Is it starting again?”
Zhou Zishu nodded tightly. He’d drawn up his knees so he could sit cross-legged, but when he tried to redirect his qi his face twisted in pain. He coughed, swallowed, pressed his hands against his chest. “Yes. And it’s…” he grinned humourlessly, “pretty fucking bad. Guess I really pissed Ye Baiyi off. I don’t want to indulge in your animalistic tendencies, Lao Wen. I need you to…” He stopped, jaws clenched to ride out another spasm of pain. “To…” He looked so helpless, all of a sudden, unable to express what exactly it was he needed.
Wen Kexing smiled, sheer affection making his eyes burn. He nodded. “Alright.” He stripped out of his blood-soiled shirt and trousers but put on the thin cotton inner robe instead. Then he went in search of more pillows. They’d had to throw quite a few away because mould had crept in, but he found four tucked away in a closet that were still fine. He placed all of them against the headboard of Zhou Zishu’s bed and sat up against them. With the pillows propping him up, his ribs didn’t hurt that badly. “Come here,” he murmured, pulling Zhou Zishu’s into his lap so his back was against Wen Kexing’s front, and wrapping his arms around him, one below his hurt arm, one over his sound arm, his hands spread out so they covered four of the scars. He had to clamp down hard on the urge to share his energy, but since he was still hurting from the previous time, it wasn’t as difficult as before. All about this: this position, the pressure of Zhou Zishu’s body against his chest and the coiling of qi inside of him hurt. And yet, he had rarely felt more at peace. As Zhou Zishu tensed and grew limp in his embrace as the pain waxed and waned, unable to do anything but simply endure, Wen Kexing relished the feel of his vertebrae and scapulae as they dug into his bruises when he hunched his back in agony, and the warm weight of him when the pain let up a little and he instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.
And even though he was still furious with Ye Baiyi, especially for depriving Zhou Zishu of the one coping mechanism he had to bear the nails, he was ready to forgive the old Monster. After all, he’d given him this, and he didn’t know about Zhou Zishu, but to him, this came pretty close to perfection.
*
In the morning, when confronted with a slow but inquisitive young disciple, Zhou Zishu made up some outrageous story about bandits. He also told Chengling that Ye Baiyi wouldn’t be joining them for dumplings after all, which was rather fortunate as Wen Kexing, who would have been tasked with making them, was unable to do anything more strenuous than lay down on various surfaces and spontaneously fall asleep. While Zhou Zishu already had regained control of his qi, Wen Kexing’s meridians were still blocked and to keep from infusing everything he did with internal energy, his body had decided it was safer to shut down. He woke up easily enough when prodded or shaken, but he was sluggish and slow.
“What you need is a herbal bath,” Zhou Zishu said. “And ginseng soup.”
“What I need is wine,” Wen Kexing muttered, stretching out his hand to a pot he had put conveniently within arm’s reach. Zhou Zishu plucked the pot from the table with the hand that was not in a sling.
“Chengling, go and fetch water,” he said.
“Yes, shifu.”