1.
It is an act of defiance twice-over when Zhou Zishu bares his chest in court.
The first act of defiance is baring his chest at all.
Though Prince Jin has summoned him in solitude, with naught but the barest handful of servants to witness them, this is still the palace. This is still where nobles plot and plan, shrouded with layers of intention. Truth is hidden upon the skin, covered by bright clothes and guarded with cupped hands, sheltered from all but the most probing touch.
Zhou Zishu has played this game for long years, watching from corners and walking in Prince Jin’s wake. Never has anyone stripped themselves bare of their own accord; it is always Prince Jin and his people who force courtiers and traitors to this point, who flay them with words and whips until nothing but a tattered soul remains, spread out on the floor in weeping contrition or death.
He has damned himself already, Zhou Zishu knows, with each nail he has set into his body and accepted into his flesh. He does not care. He peels back the protective layers of his robes, staring Prince Jin in the eyes and daring him to say Stop.
This is Zhou Zishu’s second defiance.
In revealing himself, he is reminding Prince Jin of what he had long since known and desired but could never have.
With each piece of cloth he removes, the tension in Prince Jin’s face becomes more evident. With each layer discarded to the floor, Zhou Zishu becomes more certain that this was his only remaining choice.
He does not remove the cloth binding his breasts. That would be a step too far, even for him—the best-beloved of the reigning lord, the most dangerous man in the room even having broken himself down. Zhou Zishu had wound his breast-cloth carefully as he prepared for court, making sure every meridian would be visible: Beneath his collarbones, beneath his pectorals, beneath his ribs, and the yet-whole seventh beneath his sternum.
The court is silent as Zhou Zishu strips.
Prince Jin stands, and stares, and sucks in a breath at the bloody wounds Zhou Zishu has carved into his body, the shining metal revealed where he has shorn his own scars.
Every other person in the room, even Duan Pengju, keeps their head lowered, their gazes averted; this is not for them. Zhou Zishu is grateful for this pretense, for the subtle flow of memory that will allow them to elide the truth and forget that Zhou Zishu has ever been but a man.
“Zishu,” Prince Jin says, and strides forward, crossing half the distance between them in seconds.
He speaks no further words, but Zhou Zishu reads the questions in his eyes.
How could you do this to yourself? is one, and for that Zhou Zishu has no answer which Prince Jin will understand. Prince Jin is a man born to power, bitter at the politics that have sent him northwest and away from the throne he believes he should already hold. Zhou Zishu was born to the sun-bright waterfall cascades of the jianghu and the drifting petals of his shifu’s manor; he has been held to the confines of shadow long enough.
How could you do this to me? is the other, wrought into every line of Prince Jin’s familiar face.
Zhou Zishu will not give him the satisfaction of that answer. He chose this path without care for any but himself; there is no honor left in his life, but this will give him a glimpse at something like redemption, if he can escape. A chance to walk his own way, without politics turning swords and seals into leashes around his throat.
“My will is broken,” he says, because he must say something. Zhou Zishu meets Prince Jin’s eyes and speaks barren truth: “I want to return to my hometown. I asked for the punishment of the Nails of Seven Torments, and granted it to myself.”
Prince Jin looks away, then, and Zhou Zishu doesn’t allow himself to feel any emotions at the tears gathering in his eyes.
“I have already placed six,” Zhou Zishu says, and wills Prince Jin to understand: He cannot turn back. No matter what Prince Jin might wish, there is no recourse.
For all that people remember him as nothing more than a spectre, a sword in the night, a sharp gaze fixed on their back, Zhou Zishu has been part of politics for a decade. He has learned many ways to ensure he gets what he needs.
Prince Jin knows this, from how his jaw tenses.
“In honor of what meager services I have provided you,” Zhou Zishu says, watching Prince Jin flinch at services, “I ask you to fulfill my wishes.”
Zhou Zishu sees the moment Prince Jin turns from grief to rage. His face contorts, and he throws words at Zhou Zishu as if they could ever hurt more than what Zhou Zishu has already experienced. Cruel, yes; of course he is cruel. He has sent his shidi to death, led his brothers to his lineage’s destruction. Decisive, yes; how else would he have come to this point? How else would Prince Jin have loved him, and granted him such power?
Willing to hurt himself? Zhou Zishu does not laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile, because Prince Jin would misread his mirth. This pain is simply what he deserves, the torment of the sect he ruined visited upon him in turn. How could he not be willing to bear that, in penitence?
Prince Jin draws Duan Pengju’s sword, and as steel rings through the hall Zhou Zishu is the only person whose face is not on the floor. Zhou Zishu stays kneeling, upright and unwilling to bend. He has already broken; there is nothing left to shatter.
“I could grant you death,” Prince Jin says, voice thundering through the hall. “Why go through all this trouble?”
“You saved my life.” It is not a pleasant memory, but it is a true one. Zhou Zishu had found meaning in Prince Jin’s court, found a new life here. He takes a deep breath, as Prince Jin’s swordpoint stays steadily in line with his throat, and says, “I can drag this crippled body through two more years of life, should you allow it. If you do not—” he lifts his eyes to Prince Jin’s “—then take my life.”
Prince Jin stares at him silently for the space of a heartbeat, then lunges at him with a scream.
Zhou Zishu does not flinch.
The sword slices through the binding on his chest, the last layer of cloth hiding him from sight. Zhou Zishu does not move as it slips down his shoulders, lands on the ground behind him. He does not like how it feels to have the Prince see his chest, to have steel tickling the sensitive sides of his breasts, but he has committed. If he flinches, he will die.
Prince Jin’s gaze doesn’t waver from Zhou Zishu’s.
No other eyes are watching; the rest are still facing the floor in abject desire to quell the anger Zhou Zishu has stirred.
Zhou Zishu waits, his instincts screaming at him to move, to act, to disarm Prince Jin and raise the sword to his face instead. He has been the weapon in Prince Jin’s hand for too many years; he does not wish to turn against the man who wielded him just yet. He simply wishes to turn from him, and walk away.
When Prince Jin hurls Duan Pengju’s sword over Zhou Zishu’s head, they both know it is capitulation.
No matter how much Prince Jin screams and cries about how He Yunxing and Jing Beiyuan are gone, how everyone who brought him here has left him behind, Zhou Zishu knows the truth: He is not the only one who has burnt his heart out on Prince Jin’s dreams.
He is not the only one to wish to choose his own way and wander free.
“You were lying to me,” Prince Jin says, his hoarse whisper a plea more than a question. “You won’t leave.”
Zhou Zishu swallows. For the love he once bore Prince Jin, he does not directly refute him. He simply says, “Please give me the last nail.”
There is a moment where Prince Jin is silent, where his face is the calm mask of the youth Zhou Zishu pledged his life to, who he built Tian Chuang for. Then it vanishes like the morning mist, and Prince Jin spits out, “Fine,” and turns away. “I will take the throne before you die, Zhou Zishu. You will live to bear witness to my ascent. You will live to regret your choice.”
Zhou Zishu bows, finally. It is the last time he ever will. “Thank you,” he says, the words weighing him down as surely as the breasts stretching off his chest and reaching towards the floor.
He has gotten what he desired.
He has gotten what he deserves.
He does not regret his choice.
2.
Zhou Zishu has been so careful to not let Wen Kexing touch him in seriousness. To not let him see more than the beggar’s robes wrapped around him, the mask he has set over his face.
The Drug Men don’t change that, exactly, but they mean he’s weak to Wen Kexing’s ministrations. They mean that he lets Wen Kexing draw away layers and bare his shoulder, because Wen Kexing’s eyes are sharp and his hands are gentle and his tongue…
Zhou Zishu does not want to think about Wen Kexing’s tongue as it trails across the poisoned bite.
He stares fixedly ahead, and doesn’t react.
Only when Wen Kexing finally calls out his disguise for what it is—shoddy, lazy, constructed with the expectation that nobody could ever come close enough to study him at all—does Zhou Zishu react. This, at least, isn’t about the way Wen Kexing is warm in contrast to the nails’ numbing cold.
“You can’t hide from me,” Wen Kexing says, and Zhou Zishu wonders how much he’s seen. How much he’s assumed. Zhou Zishu has maintained this particular deception, this particular elision of information, for nearly the whole of his life. If Wen Kexing has taken his measure and understood the truth behind the truth in these short weeks, then he is paying more attention to Zhou Zishu than anyone Zhou Zishu has met before.
Which is possible. Wen Kexing has been following him with single-minded passion, after all.
But Wen Kexing doesn’t bring up anything about his form or the lies of bodies; it is all about faces, all about the enemies Wen Kexing brags he will kill for Zhou Zishu if need be.
“Almost everyone who has seen my true appearance has died,” Zhou Zishu says, needling him, pushing at the tension gathering between them. He wants to learn what Wen Kexing knows, how much truth he needs to give.
Wen Kexing laughs. “How convenient,” he says, eyes sparkling. “I fear many things, but I do not fear death.”
Then he reaches for Zhou Zishu’s face, for the edges of the mask he already sees.
Zhou Zishu knocks his hand aside, and they spar.
They speak with their bodies, Wen Kexing asking for answers that Zhou Zishu isn’t sure he wants to share. He is willing to admit many things, especially to one who has already pierced a part of his disguise, but the issues of his body are bound into his chest. Releasing them raises more queries than it quells, and he does not wish to hear them in Wen Kexing’s voice.
They meet palm to palm, each move matched by a perfect response, and Zhou Zishu thrills to it in a way he hadn’t the other times they crossed hands. It’s different, knowing that Wen Kexing wants his truth, even if he might not understand everything he is asking for.
It’s why Zhou Zishu allows himself to fall into the lake.
It’s why he sinks to the bottom and strips the skin mask from his face; it will dissolve here, eaten away by the fish and algae, and leave no trace of his lies.
It’s why he hesitates, and thinks about the other disguise he wears.
Wen Kexing jumps into the water after him, and that makes the decision for him. There is no time to remove yet more layers, so Zhou Zishu will give him the truth of his face but not the truth of his chest.
There is enough concern in Wen Kexing’s eyes as it is, when Zhou Zishu swims up to meet him. He hadn’t expected Wen Kexing to worry after such a brief time, and he doesn’t want to give him more cause for distress.
When they breach the surface of the water, Wen Kexing gazes softly at him. “I knew you were gorgeous,” he murmurs, and Zhou Zishu is distantly surprised that his words are plain, not poetry. “Yet I still underestimated how lovely you would be.”
Zhou Zishu turns away, already prepared to regret this. “Let’s dry off,” he says, ignoring the flirting. He is too damaged for someone so clearly in their prime to lose himself to. “It would be inconvenient to survive the Drug Men and then fall prey to a cold.”
Wen Kexing laughs, and follows Zhou Zishu to shore.
It doesn’t take long to get a fire going. Wen Kexing moves with practiced efficiency, pulling a wax-sealed firestarter from his robes and arranging sticks that Zhou Zishu gathers. The fire is simply to ease their way, to help the heaviest outer layer of their robes dry. The inner layers steam already from the circulation of their qi. There will be a cost, Zhou Zishu knows, to having used so much energy today, but he gladly takes present comfort over midnight trials; those would come regardless, and feel worse in still-damp clothes.
His robes hew closer to his body like this, both from the water and from the lack of a bulky outer layer. Zhou Zishu keeps waiting for Wen Kexing to ask about the shape of his chest, the subtle differences in how cloth falls across his hips. He keeps himself hunched, as if in pain or cold, and Wen Kexing responds only by saying, “Sit, A-Xu,” and drawing him close to the flickering fire.
Zhou Zishu should argue. He is young and strong still, even with his meridians weakened. But Wen Kexing’s eyes are steady, and he says nothing about weakness. He simply presses down on Zhou Zishu’s injured shoulder until he relents, folding himself onto a rot-soft log.
Wen Kexing smiles at him. “Take care of your injuries, A-Xu,” he says, and disappears off to gather more wood. For the fire, Zhou Zishu thinks at first, and then Wen Kexing returns and builds a simple frame to hold their outer robes off the ground and expose them to the fire’s heat.
Zhou Zishu studies the way Wen Kexing moves, the familiarity he has with fitting wood together and binding it in place, and wonders what his youth was like. He holds himself like any young master of court, but his hands know too much of death, and his face speaks too much of secrets. There are shadows in his eyes that Zhou Zishu knows are mirrored in his own, and which Zhou Zishu doubts Wen Kexing will speak of any more easily.
Wen Kexing warms the wine, and they do not speak of masks removed.
They speak of ghosts, and glazed armor, and hidden histories they both know too much about.
Secrets within secrets, Zhou Zishu thinks, and lets it slide. Wen Kexing isn’t asking about his shrouded truth. He will not ask for Wen Kexing’s.
By the time they sleep, bellies warm and full with meat Wen Kexing had caught at Zhou Zishu’s behest, they have settled into familiarity once more, words and wine flowing between their tongues.
(Zhou Zishu wonders, as dreams take him, how long this gentle balance will remain.)
3.
Ye Baiyi is a mystery, a legend, a dangerous hope.
Zhou Zishu follows him, questions him, seeks answers to problems he resists solving, and stiffens as soon as Ye Baiyi asks him to remove his clothes.
Ye Baiyi’s demand didn’t need to become a fight, except for how Zhou Zishu has held this truth for years now and doesn’t wish to breach it so casually. Not even for an immortal descended from his mountain. Not even for a person who says he might be able to save him from himself.
Their bodies move together in conversation, play and counterplay, and Zhou Zishu feels the depth and beauty of Ye Baiyi’s skills in the dozen moves they exchange before Wen Kexing arrives. He sees them blossom and flower yet more against Wen Kexing’s wildness, purity in the simplicity of Ye Baiyi’s economy of movement.
This is the core of martial arts, Zhou Zishu knows, and he wonders how many years Ye Baiyi studied before he understood how to find immortality on the edge of a sword.
Zhou Zishu could watch them fight for hours, enjoying the grace of their actions and learning from their strikes and responses, if it weren’t about him.
But it is about him, and so when Ye Baiyi mocks Wen Kexing’s skills and sets him bristling, Zhou Zishu moves to intervene. There is only so much that he can hide from either of them: While Wen Kexing has never tried to breach his privacy, that hasn’t stopped him from wanting to worm his way into Zhou Zishu’s heart; and—though he has known Zhou Zishu for less than a day—Ye Baiyi has already seen through all the facades Zhou Zishu has built around himself.
He is tired of holding up all these pretenses. He is exhausted by seeing how much they care. Hope is fragile, and more precious than the glazed armor the jianghu has gathered to fight over, and Zhou Zishu does not like holding it in the cradle of his heart.
Zhou Zishu grabs their shoulders, shoves his way between them. “Stop it,” he says, tiredness and urgency warring for the upper hand. He isn’t sure which wins, but the words come out as something more than a plea but less than a command.
He didn’t expect it to work.
Yet, it does.
They’re both watching him, waiting for his determination of what actions may be taken, and Zhou Zishu sighs. He ran away from those burdens of command; he had not expected to find them again in such a way. So he shakes his head slightly, ruefully, and says. “Life and death are up to fate,” as much to himself as much as either of them.
“I love fighting against fate,” Ye Baiyi says brightly, cutting off the rest of what Zhou Zishu had thought to defend himself with. “Take off your clothes. Let me see.”
The breathless hope in Wen Kexing’s face hurts more than the nails’ deep-rooted and too-familiar ache. Zhou Zishu tries to deflect, scrambling to turn the conversation to Ye Baiyi’s identity instead of his own pain. He is resigned to how poorly it works; Wen Kexing can never let go of a subject he cares about. And, as much as it scares him, Zhou Zishu has to admit that he is a subject Wen Kexing cares about.
Still, it surprises him when Ye Baiyi goads Wen Kexing into grabbing the folds of his robe, into attempting to open them himself.
That shock is alcohol on a forgotten wound, burning through the numbness that has consumed his heart. Wen Kexing’s touch lights him on fire, sends a blaze of fear through him so bright he can’t see, can’t do anything but hear Wen Kexing’s words and stumble back on instinct.
“A-Xu,” Wen Kexing says, more gently than the wild worry laced through the rest of his actions. “Let me see.”
Zhou Zishu grabs his hands tight, not caring about whether he could break those graceful fingers or if he’ll tear Wen Kexing’s beautiful skin. All he cares about is that someone is going to see what they should not, that the last time someone tried this he killed them, and that he doesn’t want to need to kill Wen Kexing too.
He likes Wen Kexing, though he’d never meant to, but Zhou Zishu will not forgive having this truth taken from him by force.
“Let go,” he snaps, but it comes out a cry, the words blurring on his tongue as he tosses Wen Kexing’s hands away. “Are you done yet?”
Wen Kexing looks at him, eyes wide with sorrow, and Zhou Zishu doesn’t know or care why he’s so sad. What does he have to be sad about? This isn’t about Wen Kexing’s own layers of lies and masks that Zhou Zishu itches to strip from him.
This is about Zhou Zishu, and the pain he carries, set into his flesh by an accident of fate and his own hand alike, twin wrongnesses of his body that scream through the back of his head and which he cannot remove.
It’s that thought which leads him to step back and meet Wen Kexing’s eyes. Close as he insists upon being, he will learn one day regardless. Better to have it over with, to have it bound up in another admission that Zhou Zishu loathes to make. “You want to see?” he says softly, panic transformed to simmering anger. “Fine.”
Wen Kexing should have guessed, by now, what lies beneath Zhou Zishu’s robes. If he doesn’t know, then Zhou Zishu dares him to say anything, to change his feelings and his actions because of it; if he does, then he was never worthy of Zhou Zishu’s affection to begin with. Then, this will simply become another reason to cut ties, to walk away from everything he has been entangled by. He had never wanted to stand at the pivot of jianghu politics to begin with.
Ye Baiyi already knows, Zhou Zishu is sure, because Ye Baiyi felt his pulse in the inn and his eyes had briefly widened before narrowing in concentration and concern.
Zhou Zishu pulls back the layers hiding his chest and the nails. He has not bound his chest for this revelation—he had not been expecting to do this tonight—and there is nothing beneath his robes but curved flesh and lumpy scars.
He does not look at either of the men who asked him for half of this truth, instead gazing past them at the night and watching their faces with his peripheral vision.
Wen Kexing’s eyes widen, then fix upon his chest, and Zhou Zishu stops attending to him. He doesn’t want to know what emotions he would too-easily read.
Ye Baiyi meets his eyes a second later, understanding clear in his face and words. “No wonder you can still be so active,” Ye Baiyi says, and—though he grimaces at the judgement—Zhou Zishu is glad that this immortal understands what is important and what is immaterial lies of the body. “The nails are fixing your meridians in place.”
Zhou Zishu drops his head in something like a nod, drawing the folds of his robes back into place to hide both the sin of his hands and the frustration of his birth. He feels like he’s floating, unmoored from the present, anchored only by familiar pain flaring through his chest and the clear eyes boring into him.
“Whose idea was this?” Ye Baiyi asks, unrelenting. “It is clever, and cruel.”
Zhou Zishu suspects he already knows. He still responds, the final answer to the question Wen Kexing had asked him a mere hour earlier when they had been drinking and playing games. “Mine,” he says, and Wen Kexing winces in the corner of his vision.
Ye Baiyi just laughs, and it’s almost admiring when he says, “You really do want to kill yourself.”
Wen Kexing makes a choked little sound at that, and Zhou Zishu does not look at him. He can’t, not right now, not with his heart as openly on his chest as it currently is.
“Follow me.” Ye Baiyi turns and walks away as if it’s obvious that Zhou Zishu will follow.
Zhou Zishu glances, once, at Wen Kexing.
He hasn’t moved this entire time. Zhou Zishu thinks about reaching out to him, thinks about offering some support.
For what, he isn’t sure; the pain in Wen Kexing’s heart is nothing that Zhou Zishu knows how to heal, though he’s seen its echo in Prince Jin’s eyes before. But Prince Jin’s pain had been of his own creation, and Wen Kexing’s is something Zhou Zishu wishes he could ease.
He cannot. He has harmed himself, and he has hurt Wen Kexing by doing so, though at that time he hadn’t even known Wen Kexing’s name.
In the end, Zhou Zishu turns away. There is no comfort, in this moment, which he knows how to give.
He follows Ye Baiyi, and hopes that Wen Kexing will continue being a burr stuck to his side. Of all the pains he bears, Wen Kexing’s presence is the kindest, for it only wishes to dig in roots and turn him into a trellis hung with flowers.
(Zhou Zishu thinks, sometimes, that he would not mind that use for his bones.)
Wen Kexing trails behind him, inevitable as the turning of the seasons.
Zhou Zishu rejects Ye Baiyi’s offer, because a life without martial arts is no life at all.
They do not talk about any of the revelations, save Wen Kexing’s drive to find a cure to something that cannot be cured.
4.
When Zhou Zishu wakes to midnight pains, Wen Kexing is there beside him.
He has never asked Wen Kexing for this gift. The first dozen times Wen Kexing arrived, Zhou Zishu actively tried to send him away, though Wen Kexing only listened twice. As the long days of travel to Longyuan Pavilion continued, Zhou Zishu stopped pretending to be irritated by Wen Kexing’s aid, and now—though he tries not to show it—he even finds himself grateful for Wen Kexing’s presence.
Zhou Zishu’s qi writhes within his chest, a beast caught in chains, and he closes his eyes and sits up straight to concentrate. He knows that the thrashing is what is killing him. He knows he cannot quiet it fully. He does what he can, and it must be enough.
Wen Kexing’s own qi is a cooling balm on the wounds, radiating from warm hands firm on Zhou Zishu’s back and coiling around the iron pinning Zhou Zishu’s life in place. Neither of them speak during this nightly ritual, their chests moving in unison breath and their energy brushing past each other in communion instead.
Zhou Zishu ends it when the pain recedes enough to only wash upon his consciousness and not overtake it entirely. Ever since the first nail, over two years ago now, he has been in pain. He knows how to ride it, to move with it, and to make no mention of it to others who cannot comprehend. His qi settles, he opens his eyes, and he says, “Lao-Wen.”
It takes long seconds more for Wen Kexing’s power to withdraw, for his hands to leave Zhou Zishu’s back, for him to move to sit beside Zhou Zishu instead of behind him. They no longer have arguments about whether it is enough, whether Wen Kexing is allowed to burn himself out attempting to heal Zhou Zishu more than he can be; instead, they found a new battlefield to fight for their bodies’ balance.
Wen Kexing lingers, as he always does, dark eyes liquid and hopeful as he looks at Zhou Zishu.
This ritual became the source of argument once Zhou Zishu accepted Wen Kexing’s aid, and it was a fiercer fight. They’d ride ahead of Zhang Chengling and Ye Baiyi and debate, with words and eyes and hands, what was allowable and what was too much.
Zhou Zishu still isn’t sure if it’s better to say that Wen Kexing won the arguments, or if Zhou Zishu himself simply grew tired of denying the truth: Zhou Zishu wants Wen Kexing to sleep with him. He rests more deeply with another heart beating steadily beside his, another body providing warmth to a system dying too quickly, another life he too-selfishly wants to bind to his own.
So he sighs, and nods his head, and tries not to find too much joy in the way Wen Kexing smiles and draws his bedroll those last few inches that had separated them. Zhou Zishu knows that each night Wen Kexing edges closer to him; at the beginning, they’d started the night a full body-length apart.
Now it is natural to settle into the strength of Wen Kexing’s body, to rest his head on the pillow of Wen Kexing’s arm, to accept being held by Wen Kexing as his right.
Sometimes, Wen Kexing talks to him as they lie here together, his voice a murmur softer than the insects and frogs calling in the darkness. He tells stories that mix up the legends Zhou Zishu knows, allegories about Wen Kexing’s life, and fantastical tales of make-believe that leave Zhou Zishu wondering if Wen Kexing also sometimes allows himself to dream of what could have been.
Tonight isn’t one of those nights, it seems. Tonight, Wen Kexing simply buries his face in the crown of Zhou Zishu’s head and wraps himself firmly around Zhou Zishu’s ribs.
He has never tried to touch Zhou Zishu’s chest.
For all the flirting that Wen Kexing does during the day, all the teasing and taunting and trying to make Zhou Zishu blush, he has never taken advantage of this liminal hour. Wen Kexing’s hands do not wander; they only grasp and hold what Zhou Zishu gives him.
Most of the time, it’s the cloth of his robes.
Tonight, because Wen Kexing is pressing so closely and Zhou Zishu aches, it is his hand.
Wen Kexing winds their fingers together, and Zhou Zishu guides them to the divot of his chest, the anchor point of his sternum where no nails or breasts must be dodged. Wen Kexing makes a soft noise, and his hand squeezes Zhou Zishu’s.
Zhou Zishu closes his eyes, and does not listen to the hitch in Wen Kexing’s breathing, and does not feel its echo in his own chest. He simply pays attention to the steady strength of Wen Kexing’s pulse, and the weight of his arm, and the closeness of their bodies. He loses himself in the drifting floral scent Wen Kexing wears, and the honest sweat and dust of travel beneath that, and slides into slumber with no other thoughts in his mind.
He does not dream, when Wen Kexing is holding him. The nightmares that haunt Zhou Zishu are banished by this mortal ghost who holds him, his earnest promise of protecting Zhou Zishu from those he hides from given form in a way Zhou Zishu doubted he had meant. It is more welcome, like this; Zhou Zishu can fight any warrior who dares face him, but he still cannot face the memory of Qin Jiuxiao or the other seventy-nine sect-siblings he failed.
Zhou Zishu sleeps through the rest of the night, deep and dreamless, and wakes with the birds to find himself still entangled in Wen Kexing.
He keeps himself still, relishing the barest moments where the most overwhelming sensation isn’t pain but the press of another person. The ache of his chest follows him, and Zhou Zishu breathes into the sensation, letting it wash around and over him. He cannot help the way he twitches as he adjusts to it once more, and Wen Kexing grumbles and pulls him yet closer, so that their hips meet.
The hard length that reaches for him most mornings is another thing they do not discuss, though from Wen Kexing’s occasional apologetic smiles Zhou Zishu knows they are mutually aware. Zhou Zishu is more fascinated by Wen Kexing’s restraint than anything else; though his body makes his desires clear, Wen Kexing does nothing to pursue them. Once Wen Kexing is fully awake, he holds himself to words and looks and mimed actions, and comports himself with no true trace of impropriety.
Yet in the cool light of dawn, as sleep edges into waking, Wen Kexing will usually kiss him; brief and theoretically (but in no way practically) deniable.
Zhou Zishu doesn’t tell Wen Kexing how much he likes the kisses, but since they keep coming he’s sure Wen Kexing understands. There are many things neither of them is willing to admit in the light of day, sober and all too aware of the delicate balance of politics they are choosing to walk within for the sake of their disciple.
Zhou Zishu turns his face towards Wen Kexing’s, seeking this last moment they can pretend to be nothing more than two people seeking comfort in each other’s arms.
Wen Kexing’s eyes open, and he presses his lips to Zhou Zishu’s cheek with a smile.
Then he lets go, and they rise to begin the day.
5.
They’ve been dancing around their desires for days as they repair Siji Manor.
Zhou Zishu knows why. They’re settled now, planning on staying here until the New Year at least, and they have weeks to enjoy the amenities of a building that belongs to them and them alone.
The first days are too full of work to truly let thoughts linger on possibilities.
The second week, though, Wen Kexing’s gaze starts resting on him longer. Zhou Zishu notices, and teases him silently, binding back his sleeves to reveal the skin of his arms as he cleans and repairs and returns Siji Manor to its proper condition.
Wen Kexing retaliates by making sure to drop extra portions of food into his bowl, though he claims it’s no different from how he makes sure Zhang Chengling has more than enough to eat. It’s not. Even the child knows it, his eyes darting between them with a smile that he can’t hide with how quickly he eats.
“Scamp,” Wen Kexing says fondly, when Zhang Chengling bolts out of the dining room to further study Longyuan Pavilion’s techniques. “You have a good disciple, A-Xu.”
Zhou Zishu doesn’t say He is yours, too; that pain still rides too close to the surface for Wen Kexing. Instead, he smiles and steals a lingering piece of chicken from Wen Kexing’s own bowl. “You spoil him.”
Wen Kexing’s eyes track Zhou Zishu’s chopsticks, focus on his mouth. Zhou Zishu enjoys seeing how far Wen Kexing will push, how much he’ll interpret on his own. Wen Kexing’s tongue flicks out to wipe at his lips, and he says, “I’d rather spoil you.”
Zhou Zishu swallows. “Lao-Wen.” It’s weak, as protests go, but he can’t summon any better words.
“Let your disciple busy himself,” Wen Kexing says, and Zhou Zishu sees the determination in his eyes. He has come to a conclusion, and Zhou Zishu tilts forward slightly to lean on the table, waiting to hear what form this will take. “I will clean the kitchen, and then perhaps we can drink together?”
“Your room or mine?” Zhou Zishu asks, a smile tugging at his lips. Drinking together is often a prelude, an excuse for more physical matters, now that they have true solitude. The way Wen Kexing is looking at him, drinking isn’t what he’s after.
The way he’s talking, the fondling kisses aren’t the whole of what he seeks, either.
“Yours,” Wen Kexing says, as Zhou Zishu knew he would. They find themselves together there anyway, most nights.
Zhou Zishu rises, taking with him only the half-drunk jar of wine still sitting on the table. If Wen Kexing has a plan to prepare, let him have the time he needs. He bows slightly, and says, “Then I will await you.”
Wen Kexing’s mock-whining complaints that he’s not even offering to help clear the table chase him out of the room, and Zhou Zishu laughs. There is nothing but fond aggravation in his words, the same exasperation that leads Wen Kexing to try and teach his useless young lordlings to cook.
There will be time for that to come, Zhou Zishu thinks as he walks across the dusk-soft paths back to his room. The moon is rising, its brightness yet pale against the sun’s drowning light, and they are rebuilding this home.
He smiles, and seats himself on the steps, and watches the night deepen while he waits.
It isn’t long before Wen Kexing comes to join him, carrying a jug in one hand and a filled bowl in the other. Zhou Zishu leads him inside, and closes the doors behind them; though the night air is crisp and cool, he doesn’t want their voices to drift to Zhang Chengling’s ears.
“What did you bring?” Zhou Zishu asks, gesturing at the bowl Wen Kexing has placed on the table. The liquid is a light beige, too cloudy for good tea and the wrong consistency for something fermented. It seems more like a medicine, as he studies it more closely.
Wen Kexing pushes it closer to Zhou Zishu. “I’d thought about this on the road, but there was never a good space for me to brew it.” There’s uncertainty in his body language, a tension Zhou Zishu reads and anticipates the cause of but wants to confirm.
Zhou Zishu picks up the bowl and sniffs its contents, then takes a sip when he finds his nose insufficient on its own. The nails’ effects, he thinks grimly, even as he identifies what Wen Kexing has made. Zhou Zishu is familiar with this tea, though he’s rarely used it himself; it prevents pregnancy, and he does not allow people close enough for such possibilities to be an issue.
“Who taught you this?” Zhou Zishu asks, lowering the bowl without swallowing the rest. To do so would be an admission, an agreement to a question he wants to hear Wen Kexing ask properly.
“Aunt Luo.” Wen Kexing looks away, eyes focusing distantly out the window, and Zhou Zishu tries to keep himself from staring at Wen Kexing in astonishment. This is the first time he has heard Wen Kexing speak with such fondness about his past, or mention anyone who might have raised him after his parents died. “She and her girls were quite thorough about teaching me the medicines and techniques necessary to prevent certain consequences.”
Zhou Zishu laughs, startled by the wry humor in Wen Kexing’s voice. “Have you used it before?”
“No.” Wen Kexing’s eyes slide to his, the barest contact. “I haven’t needed to, before. And we don’t need to now,” he adds hastily. “Not in ways that would lead that tisane to be necessary. Not at all, if this is too much to ask.”
“It is not too much.” Zhou Zishu pulls on Wen Kexing’s shoulder, turning him until their gazes meet, and smiles at the surprise on Wen Kexing’s face. There is so little keeping them apart, now; a few layers of cloth, the bowl still in his hand, the propriety neither of them have quite allowed themselves to shatter. Zhou Zishu rubs his thumb along the edge of Wen Kexing’s collar and murmurs, “But you do need to ask.”
“A-Xu,” Wen Kexing breathes, and he reaches out to cup Zhou Zishu’s face. “I want to have sex with you, A-Xu.”
Zhou Zishu raises the bowl to his lips and drinks it down.
Wen Kexing’s eyes darken, and his hands slide down to tug at Zhou Zishu’s robes. This time, unlike other nights where hands have wandered and Wen Kexing’s libido has overtaken him, Zhou Zishu nods encouragement. He sets the bowl aside—its purpose has been well-served—and allows Wen Kexing to unwrap him with the reverence normally given to family treasures.
They leave a trail of clothes on the floor as they make their way to bed, wine abandoned in favor of more precious and newer tastes. Zhou Zishu keeps himself close to Wen Kexing, revelling in the feeling of skin against skin, hands reaching to find and trace every scar on Wen Kexing’s body. Wen Kexing meets him with gentle lips and sharp teeth, leading him down until they lie chest-to-chest, limbs intertwined.
The space between them closes yet further, and Zhou Zishu shivers at this new pleasure. Wen Kexing waits, eyes brighter than the stars, until Zhou Zishu nods.
The night is given over to pleasures of the flesh, in every way they know.
In the morning, Zhou Zishu wakes to new aches in his body. These are not from the nails, nor from a fight; these are from Wen Kexing, and Zhou Zishu lets his fingers linger along the bruises lining his limbs. They are gifts; he will learn from these marks, as he has from every sparring match, but the goal they represent—and which Zhou Zishu is now moving towards—is not survival but sensation.
Zhou Zishu smiles, and turns to Wen Kexing, and wakes him with a biting kiss.
It might be morning, but they do not need to rush to rise.
6.
The mountaintop Wu Xi demands they perform this operation upon is cold. Zhou Zishu doesn’t notice, mostly. He pays attention to how many fires Jing Beiyuan and Wen Kexing light, the amount of steam rising from soup and tea, the fog of their breath. He tries to keep himself safe from the deep frost, and allows everyone to herd him inside, exasperated, when they realise his fingers are turning a blue he can no longer see.
Wu Xi circles Zhou Zishu, prowling like the sable Zhou Zishu remembers standing upon his shoulders and resting in his robes. The same beast, now, is grayed and almost-placid as it sits on Jing Beiyuan’s lap and swipes at Wen Kexing whenever he tries to touch it.
Zhou Zishu ignores their bickering, and tolerates anything Wu Xi asks of him. He wants this to be done, and to live through it.
“You could have had the court’s surgeons remove your breasts,” Wu Xi finally says, as he finishes measuring Zhou Zishu’s pulse for the third time that afternoon. “They are competent at such matters.”
Zhou Zishu wraps himself back up in the fur cloak Wen Kexing demands he wear. “I could have,” he agrees. He watches Wu Xi carefully measure liquids—poisons, curatives, alcohol bases—and doesn’t try to name them. He has lost too much to truly tell what they are without interfering in Wu Xi’s work. “But then I would have needed to kill everyone involved with the operation. It would have been a waste of good surgeons.”
Wu Xi snorts, and the polecat draped around his neck like a scarf turns to glare at Zhou Zishu. It’s not unlike having the man himself look at him; they have the same too-black predatory eyes. “It would have made you feel better.”
Zhou Zishu looks away, huddes further into the cloak’s warmth. Feeling better wouldn’t have served Prince Jin’s goals. Feeling better would have meant acknowledging that he hadn’t felt good at all. Feeling better would have meant prioritising himself, a selfishness he had taken too long to learn. He sighs, and admits only the surface of those thoughts. “I would have needed to think about it.”
“And you didn’t think while in his service, did you?” The words cut, as Wu Xi no doubt intended. He always had been able to understand far more than the court gave him credit for. “Now you’re free. Try to regain more than just your body, Zishu.”
“Wen Kexing reminds me of that.” With his words. With his body. With the whole of his existence, really, though Zhou Zishu has never explicitly told him as much. Wen Kexing understands anyway, he’s sure.
Wu Xi’s words soften, finally. “He’s good for you.”
“Yes.” Zhou Zishu isn’t sure that Wen Kexing is good for or to anyone else, but that’s irrelevant. Wen Kexing is the missing piece of his life, the final key to a lock he hadn’t thought to find. Zhou Zishu raises his eyes to meet Wu Xi’s. “He is.”
Wu Xi nods, slowly, and his eyes go distant. “I will give you this gift, then.”
Zhou Zishu frowns at him, puzzling through the words. The nails’ effects have been clouding his mind, lately, the final stage of their poison. Wu Xi gives him time to think, returning to mixing his medicines. Another day, he’s said, and they’ll be ready.
“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” Zhou Zishu says, when he finally understands. “I didn’t know you’d learned the surgeon’s art as well.”
“I know a little bit of everything, and more than most in many things.” Wu Xi smiles at him, ever so slightly, and Zhou Zishu understands more of why Jing Beiyuan left the court for his sake. When Wu Xi cares about someone, his devotion is glacier-thick and implacable. His promises are no less binding, and just as rarely given. “It will keep you from seeking out a poor doctor, or killing a good one.”
“Thank you,” Zhou Zishu says, throat choked with tears he doesn’t want to shed.
“It is a gift,” Wu Xi repeats fiercely. “I am done entangling my life with yours.”
Zhou Zishu bows. There are no more words he can say.
It is a week later when Zhou Zishu wakes.
His chest is numb, but underneath it his body aches. He breathes into it, gauges the pain, and opens his eyes with a smile.
Wen Kexing squeezes his hand, luminescent and full of vivid life. Zhou Zishu gazes at him, memorizing the deep brown of his eyes and the way blood lights his lips the most beautiful pink. He’d forgotten those colors, seen them only as black and pale, before Wu Xi had paid back the decade-old favor.
“How do you feel?” Wen Kexing asks, and there’s more music in his voice than Zhou Zishu has ever heard. It’s overwhelming, especially with the bright scent of cedar and pine filling the room, the bitter flavors of medicine still lingering on his tongue.
Despite that, Zhou Zishu laughs, because his body feels clear and lighter than it has in years. Perhaps lighter than it has ever felt, he realises as his eyes travel down his body without the interruption he’s grown used to hiding beneath layers of binding and concealing cloth. “Good,” he says, though his mouth feels sore from that simple movement. His meridians will need a long time to recover, Wu Xi has warned him, and Zhou Zishu can feel that truth from the way lightning buzzes beneath his skin. “I feel good.”
There’s pain, yes, but this pain is healing.
This pain, Zhou Zishu thinks as Wen Kexing’s face drops to his shoulder and soaks it with joyful tears, he can live with.