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These days, Zhao Yunlan is better about taking care of himself. Really he is, because he can hardly fault Shen Wei for his pig-headed refusal to prioritize his own health and safety when he’s just as bad. If he wants Shen Wei to do better, well, he’s willing to put in the effort himself too. He sticks to his medication regime, he eats regularly – made far easier by Shen Wei’s constant presence in the kitchen turning out hot, mouth-watering meals – and he mostly kicks the pre-packaged junk.
The one thing he didn’t consider was extenuating circumstances.
Guo Changcheng and Zhu Hong go missing on a Monday afternoon. Zhu Hong, on a routine visit to Dragon City for a meeting on behalf of the Yashou, had been doing some shopping afterwards and brought Guo Changcheng along to help carry her purchases.
Neither of them returns afterwards.
With the exception of Zhao Yunlan himself, they’re likely the stupidest abductions possible. Zhu Hong’s disappearance throws the Yashou into a frenzy that’s full of fangs and talons, while Guo Changcheng’s – possibly worse – infuriates Chu Shuzhi, and incidentally also the Minister.
SID springs into action, and paltry things like schedules and downtime are left in the dust. Zhou Yunlan tries to eat, he really does, even managing a few mouthfuls at mealtimes. But as time ticks on and all the clues point to a radical, unhinged anti-Dixing group things start to look genuinely awful. Zhou Yunlan’s stomach winds tighter and tighter, wrapped around with barbed wire, tense and bitingly painful. He eats for Shen Wei, when his lover brings him small morsels carefully prepared, but he throws half of it up again in the toilet later. He feels like sludge scraped off the inside of an oil drum, but none of that matters.
The days slip by, time falling through their fingers as they search desperately. Even when Zhao Yunlan can forgive himself for taking a minute to rest, to lie down, he can’t sleep. He’s seen the threats – graphic in their detail – that the kidnappers have posted online. His imagination is fierce and feverish. His head is full of horror, his heart full of pain.
They find them on Friday. The kidnappers are smart enough to keep them underground, out of the sight of any crows or snakes that might be searching. But the roots of the flower tribe stretch everywhere, eventually, and they’re found by an old oak who speaks with an elderly man’s gruff stammer.
There’s a fight over who goes in after them, of course. Shen Wei wants to go in alone, hinting without saying it that Zhao Yunlan’s not at his best. Chu Shuzhi is not being left behind, nor is Fourth Uncle. Zhao Yunlan, it goes without saying, is leading. They leave behind the rest of their group to watch the exit.
Down in the earth, the walls of the tunnel are made from packed dirt. LED string lights are hung above, like a single constellation stretched in a line. The tunnel is narrow, just barely wide enough for two to walk abreast. Shen Wei and Zhao Yunlan lead. Behind come Chu Shuzhi and Fourth Uncle.
Part way down, the tunnel splits into two channels. By silent agreement Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei head right, the other two left. There are only a few more yards of tunnel and then it opens out into what seems like the basement of another building. Wide, stone-walled, cold. In the centre of the room Zhu Hong and Guo Changcheng lie on the floor, tied to each other. They’re sluggish and pale as they look up – but they’re alive. Alive.
Shen Wei steps forward to sever the bonds with a wave of his hands. Which leaves Zhao Yunlan to grapple with the goon who comes pelting down another unnoticed tunnel. He does so handily, kicking his knee out from under him with a satisfying crunch and throwing him into the wall. He steps after him to make sure he goes down – quietly or not is up to him – and so doesn’t quite see the second man who follows.
What he does see is the flash of Shen Wei’s blue suit, and the knife that shines like quicksilver as it cuts down towards Zhao Yunlan. An instant later Shen Wei’s arm is there, and the blade cuts into his wrist. Cuts almost through it, blood pouring out, pattering down onto the dirt floor. The rich metallic smell billows up, so strong it has an almost physical presence. Zhao Yunlan’s heart feels like it’s being torn out of his chest, being dragged up his throat by a frozen hand.
Then Shen Wei moves, throwing his attacker across the room with a blast of dark energy. The knife he pulls out with a further sluice of blood, panting. Almost immediately, though, the red river is curtailed. It slows, then stops, as Shen Wei heals himself.
His white cuff is crimson, his sleeve dark, wet burgundy.
Zhao Yunlan makes a sick noise in his throat. Shen Wei sweeps his good arm, and the Envoy’s robes appear, black as midnight and finely embroidered with whorls and whirlwinds. The gonggong blade is in his hand, its long edge the pale blue of a flame’s heart. They wait for others. But no one else comes.
Zhao Yunlan wants to reach for his lover. To grab him and shake him, or to draw him into his chest and just hold him there. To scream, or maybe just sob. To push his sleeve up with frantic hands and feel for himself the solid, whole flesh there.
He does none of these things. Instead, he turns back to the two captives. Both seem weak and dizzy, eyes circled with bruises, movements stiff. Possibly drugged, or just starved. He gets them up to their feet just as Chu Shuzhi and Fourth Uncle appear. They push past Shen Wei at his most daunting, Fourth Uncle catching hold of his niece while Chu Shuzhi pulls Guo Changcheng into a tight embrace, seeming almost to hide him away within his dark knit layers. An ungainly gander might hide a gosling thus, without any appearance of embarrassment.
“Found three of the bastards,” he says, over the boy’s shoulder. “They’re not a problem now.”
Zhao Yunlan nods. He can’t bring himself to care. He feels chilled, sick, his head starting to throb. As the adrenaline drains away the shakes are starting to set in, worse than nicotine withdrawal.
Together, they escort Zhu Hong and Guo Changcheng up into the daylight, a crisp fall morning. Zhao Yunlan sends Lin Jing and Da Qing, who have been waiting by the exit to the cramped tunnels, down to tie up the captives and take identities. He pulls out his phone to contact DCPD to help with arrests; Haixingren aren’t in SID’s mandate. Fourth Uncle takes Zhu Hong, heading back to Yashou territory, while Chu Shuzhi lifts Guo Changcheng into the car and stares pointedly at Zhao Yunlan until he tosses him the keys.
Which leaves just him and Shen Wei.
He’s exhausted, ground down and empty. His stomach is starting to curl inwards, nibbling and biting at itself. His legs feel shaky. Only now is there time for the two of them. “Are you okay?” He reaches out and takes Shen Wei’s arm. He has to unhook the Envoy’s black silk sleeve before he can push it up to reveal a pale, unmarked wrist. Not even a scar line.
His hands tighten over Shen Wei’s arm, hard, drunk with relief. He sighs, head dipping. Spots dance across his vision; he blinks them away.
“Zhao Yunlan –”
“Go home,” says Zhao Yunlan, lifting his head. “You need to clean up, anyway.”
He’s not even that mad, really. Not right now. Just so – empty. Like a cracked vase, all the water drained out and the flowers inside left to wilt. Shen Wei looks at him from beneath the coal-black hood, eyes uncertain.
“Xiao Wei. Please. I have to deal with the clean-up here. Then I’ll come home. I just – I can’t do that and worry about you.”
“It was not,” begins Shen Wei. Zhao Yunlan tastes bile on his tongue at the memory of blood aerosolizing, a fine red spray along the jut of the knife.
“It absolutely was,” cuts in Zhao Yunlan, tone hard. “I don’t want to fight. Please. Can you just – go home?” It’s not like him, he knows. He can see the worry in Shen Wei’s face. But he has so little left, right now, running on fumes, a rumbling shudder of exhaustion trying to shake itself through him. “I won’t be that long. Promise. Finish here, do an initial report, and come home.”
Shen Wei nods, slowly. “I would feel better if you stayed with Da Qing,” he says.
A flicker of anger sparks at the implication he needs a minder, but without fuel it puffs out of existence almost as fast. “As if the damn fatty is more reliable than me. Aiyo, Shen Wei, just go. Okay? I’ll be fine.”
Shen Wei reaches out, running the soft pads of his fingertips over Zhao Yunlan’s jaw. He wants to lean in – his eyelids flicker, drooping, exhaustion welling up inside him. But he catches himself, and pulls back. Shen Wei opens a portal, and disappears into it.
Zhao Yunlan, left behind, alone, rubs his hands hard across his face, then slaps his cheeks. Then, skin tingling and head aching, he goes back underground.
***
It all takes longer than it should, of course. DCPD gets lost on the way out to the site, and then they don’t bring enough cars to take Zhao Yunlan and his team back with them, so there’s a further wait. At the office he jots down some notes and makes a quick bulleted list to send to the Minister, with a reassurance that his nephew is fine.
As he works, his body seems to be recognizing that the whiplash tension that’s been driving him relentlessly on for the past several days has evaporated. His stomach is grinding up through its usual gears, from background grumbling to a feeling like broken glass has been introduced into its clenched folds. His mouth is dry, gluey, and the ache in his head is spreading beneath his skull like a sheet of folded metal being hammered in directly atop his brain. His fingers resting on his keyboard are starting to tremble, scattering typos into his notes. Finally, when he mistypes his own name, he knows it’s time to call it quits.
He gets up, and has to sit down again as his head spins. The edges of his vision oscillate, bending like a fun-house mirror. He grabs the cup on his desk and drinks the dregs of what’s in there – coffee, cold – and forces himself up again. This time he collects Da Qing on the way out.
His car isn’t in its space – goddamn Chu Shuzhi – so he hails a cab. Aware that he’s fading fast, swirling nausea wrapping itself around his shaky body like bindweed, he tosses his wallet to Da Qing and tucks himself in the corner of the cab.
He’s a wreck when Da Qing tips him out in front of their building. He trips over his own two feet, the damn cat yowling as he catches him.
Upstairs he tries to straighten up, plaster a carefree expression on his face for Shen Wei, but it’s like trying to put a band-aid on a bullet hole. He stumbles in through the door, into the warmth and safety and comfort of his own home, and just can’t anymore.
He probably would have hit the floor ass-first if it weren’t for Shen Wei, looming up out of nowhere. Like a dog that inexorably turns to face its master, Shen Wei always seems to know when he’s about to arrive. So instead he face-plants against Shen Wei’s chest, miserable, hurting, and lets Shen Wei catch him. Which he does with alacrity, arms around Zhao Yunlan’s shoulders and waist, holding him up for a moment before slowly lowering him to the ground. They sit there together in the entryway, entangled, as Shen Wei presses a hand to his forehead, then his wrist.
“Just a headache. ‘N my stupid stomach,” Zhao Yunlan shaves the words out of his dry throat like swirls of cedar under a chisel. Shen Wei caresses him gently, his touch wonderfully cool. When he starts to twist his hand in a familiar motion, Zhao Yunlan grabs his wrist. “Uh uh. No healing.”
“A-Lan…”
“Xiao Wei. No healing. This won’t kill me. Won’t even last more than a day or two.”
“You’re suffering,” says Shen Wei, low and awful.
“And you let someone nearly cut off your fucking hand earlier today. Between us, which one’s the bigger fool?”
Shen Wei looks so mulish that Zhao Yunlan almost wants to laugh. Instead he knocks their foreheads together, gently. “I can’t stop you doing what you did, but I can keep you from upchucking blood on the apartment floor. No healing.” He sighs, closing his eyes. “C’mon. My legs are falling asleep. Let’s go – I need to lie down.”
He’s learned over time that it’s basically impossible to shame Shen Wei for his instinct to sacrifice himself to benefit Zhao Yunlan, but he also knows that if he makes pointed requests they will be acted upon promptly. And, sure enough, Shen Wei pulls him up into his arms as if he weighed nothing – which, admittedly, is what he feels like now, insubstantial as a sycamore seed floating on a breeze – and carries him across to the bed.
He lays him down on the cool sheets and pulls off Zhao Yunlan’s boots, then his jean jacket. Shen Wei knows that when Zhao Yunlan has a headache he likes to be propped up, reducing the throb in his skull, so grabs some extra pillows to settle him against. Da Qing hops up to sit on his far side, a short chubby loaf, and starts to purr. Zhao Yunlan rests a hand across his back, the vibrations rumbling up his arm.
On socked feet Shen Wei disappears, and Zhao Yunlan closes his eyes. He can’t sleep – he’s in too much pain for that. And, honestly, he feels haunted. By what almost happened today, by what he saw, by the stench of blood. Still, his usual acuity is severely blunted, and when Shen Wei returns with quiet steps he realises he has no idea at all how long he’s been gone. Just knows the grey, grimy feeling of dread clinging to him still.
His love places a towel wrapped around an ice pack over his head, carefully tucking it so it will stay on its own. Gradually thin tendrils of coolness begin to seep downwards, through his thick hair to soothe his aching head. He sighs. “Thanks, baobei.”
He feels the mattress dip beside his thigh, Shen Wei alighting. “You should take your medicine,” he says, softly.
At the thought of choking down the chalky capsules that sit so heavily in his gut, Zhao Yunlan’s stomach revolts. He sucks in a breath, stiffening, and Shen Wei reaches for him. He catches hold of his arm and holds it, light, careful.
“Can’t,” cuts out Zhao Yunlan, through his teeth. His voice is thick with nausea, alarming wetness rising up in his mouth; he forces himself to swallow it down and lie still lest he retch here in his bed. Shen Wei sits silently beside him, his thumb describing slow circles on his forearm. Something to focus on; he tries to follow the pattern until the danger has passed. “Sorry,” he adds, which sounds fucking pitiful.
“It’s alright.” Shen Wei’s voice is low, and Zhao Yunlan knows if he put more power behind it he would hear the hurt, the guilt. He rolls his head against the ice pack, seeking its coolness, its refreshing touch. “It’s alright. Rest – I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The mattress rises, and Shen Wei’s cool fingers slip from his arm.
Zhao Yunlan nestles down into the pillows, trying to escape the loop of his pain, to push beyond it into more interesting thoughts. He can’t, returning again and again to the grinding in his stomach and the sick ache in his skull like an animal trapped in a snare. Cut to the bone.
When Shen Wei appears again, Zhao Yunlan knows immediately why he left. He can smell the sharp, herbal scent of flower tribe medicine. It’s not better than the modern pills that Shen Wei secretly looks down on, but it is sometimes possible for him to choke it down when he can’t manage his meds. Despite the intense scent the bitterness of it somehow cuts through the nausea in a way not much else can.
Zhao Yunlan opens his eyes – gummy, already, yuck – and looks up to see Shen Wei pale and worn and worried, carrying a thick porcelain cup in both hands like some kind of shaman conducting a ritual. It could be a decade old; it could be a millennium old. It’s plain grey, pock-marked, rough to the touch. He leans forward and sets it to Zhao Yunlan’s lips. A cool, blunt touch. “Drink,” he says, both a requirement and a request.
Zhao Yunlan licks his dry lips and lets Shen Wei tip the thick brew into his mouth. He swallows once, twice, three times, and then can’t take anymore. “Stop – enough.” He pushes it away, turning to grit his teeth together and wait for the liquid to settle.
The bitter, herbal smell disappears, and Shen Wei takes him gently by the shoulders. He settles him back again against the pillows, removing the towel-wrapped ice pack. Zhao Yunlan makes a low sound of protest, of confusion, and then Shen Wei is pulling his shirt up. He coaxes it along Zhao Yunlan’s arms and over his head, leaving him bare-chested. He replaces the ice pack, then splays his clever fingers over Zhao Yunlan’s waistband, undoing the button.
“Baby, I really can’t,” murmurs Zhao Yunlan, not even able to manage a leer. Shen Wei gives him an unamused look, and then pulls his pants off. He rolls down the elastic waistband of Zhao Yunlan’s boxers until they sit lower on his hips than even his sluttiest jeans, before pulling the heavy down duvet over his legs. Zhao Yunlan, very confused, lies back and watches him.
Shen Wei settles down beside him. Slowly he reaches out and lays just the barest tips of his fingers against Zhao Yunlan’s belly. Closing his eyes, he moves his hands in a steady, serene flow. Each hand moving as a mirror to the other, his touch skates light as snowfall over Zhao Yunlan’s skin, painting swirling shapes. Circles and arcs, swirls and shooting stars.
It feels just nice at first, but as Zhao Yunlan settles it feels – better. Light as his lover’s touch is – maybe because it’s so light – his body is relaxing beneath it. A low shiver passes through his back, then a delightful tingling feeling, sweet as starlight on a frozen sea.
He can’t tell if Shen Wei is using dark energy. He doesn’t think so; if he is, it’s only a tiny thread. So Zhao Yunlan doesn’t protest, doesn’t complain, just lies back and lets him paint gentle relief into his abused body. It washes over him tenderly, constant and changing, smooth and serene. He moans, open-mouthed, as for the first time in days he feels his discomfort easing rather than growing. His body relaxes, muscle by muscle, folding with such eager yearning into his bed’s welcoming embrace.
Shen Wei continues on and on, soothing away the pain millimetre by millimetre. Zhao Yunlan lies in a soft stupor, enjoying the little trembling thrills that run beneath his skin, the delight Shen Wei ekes out of him with boundless skill.
Finally his touch disappears, but before Zhao Yunlan can react to the loss his hands are settling over Zhao Yunlan’s face. Long, clever fingers sweep over the contours of his visage, pressing into pulse points, tracing the delicate bones of his cheeks and temples. His hands are cool, as they always are, and they bring comfort with them. Zhao Yunlan makes a soft noise of gratitude, of relief, and lifts his face to meet Shen Wei’s touch.
Slowly, exhaustion reaches up for him like a mermaid's hand through a sea of sleep, and pulls him under.
***
He wakes once in the night, an hour he can’t name. The city is quiet outside, and just a faint frosty glow from the streetlight outside their bedroom is filtering through the navy curtains. Zhao Yunlan is lying down fully now, head on his own well-worn pillow. The icy coolness is gone; so is his headache. His stomach is still tight, tense, but the nausea has bled away. He feels indescribably heavy, like the bare bones of a ship that’s lain at the bottom of the ocean for centuries, half-buried in mud and completely waterlogged.
On one side Shen Wei is lying, asleep. There’s not enough light for Zhao Yunlan to make out anything other than his form, but he’s pressed in close with an arm thrown across Zhao Yunlan’s. Back when they first started sleeping together Shen Wei was so reticent to touch him while he slept, so careful to keep to his side of the bed. But he’s learned in time that Zhao Yunlan not only wants his touch, he needs it. The animalistic urge to lie pressed close in a burrow, a nest, somewhere soft and warm and smelling of their shared scent. He sighs quietly now, enjoying the slump of Shen Wei’s body against his. The sound of his breathing is slow, steady, and Zhao Yunlan knows he doesn’t have to worry for him.
On his other side Da Qing is sleeping, curled up in a ball, a fat heap of fur.
Zhao Yunlan closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him again.
***
He wakes up to the low sound of voices in another part of the apartment. They’re too far away for him to make out the words, and he’s still muzzy-headed and achy so doesn’t try.
Some of the tiredness has been washed away by sleep, but it’s not gone yet. He can still feel its pull, clinging to him. His stomach is in the dangerous place of being both hungry and also on the edge of crisis. Apart from himself the bed – the bedroom, in fact – is empty.
Zhao Yunlan sits up slowly, and swings his bare legs over the side of the bed. He feels a little light-headed, but his vision is steady. He gets up and pads over to the bathroom. After relieving himself he washes his hands and face in cold water. His skin is a shade too pale, and there are dark smudges under his eyes. His dark hair is a tangled bird’s nest. But still he feels awake, alive as he hadn’t yesterday, when he had been nothing but a shadow and behaved with about as much consideration.
Back in the bedroom he sees Shen Wei has put away his clothes from yesterday, while plugging in his phone on the bedside table. He grabs it, scrolling quickly through his texts. Both Zhu Hong and Chu Shuzhi have checked in – things are stable. He pulls on a loose pair of sleep pants and a time-worn t-shirt, and shuffles out into the hall. Nearby, he hears the front door click shut. Da Qing, probably, shooed out of the house by Shen Wei.
He heads for the kitchen, because he knows that’s where his love will be. And sure enough the gem of Dragon City University, the dreaded Black-Cloaked Envoy, SID’s special expert consultant, is there cooking something over a low flame. He’s in his shirtsleeves, just a plain white dress shirt and grey slacks. Zhao Yunlan lets fondness rise up in a wave that crests through his heart as he admires the broad spread of Shen Wei’s shoulders and the narrow nip of his waist. It still amazes him, that he was able to land such an unparalleled catch. He must have had excellent karma from his previous lives.
He pads forward on bare feet, confident that Shen Wei knows he’s there by whatever means he always knows where Zhao Yunlan is, and wraps his arms lightly around his chest. Shen Wei stills, but doesn’t startle.
“Yunlan. Are you feeling better?”
“Mm. A bit less like something Da Qing brought home to play with.” The cat’s usual playthings tend to be missing a limb or two, occasionally mangled even worse. He rests his chin on Shen Wei’s shoulder, smelling fish congee and, closer, the fragrance of Shen Wei’s skin. His lover smells of fresh snow and frost, with just a hint of cedar. He buries his nose in against Shen Wei’s neck, and closes his eyes. He feels Shen Wei relax against him, melting into his embrace.
“Yunlan.” His voice is small, the single word drifting out to mingle with the steam rising from the pot. Zhao Yunlan presses a kiss over his carotid. Taking strength and reassurance from the even throb of his heart.
“Yeah babe. Thanks for waiting for me. I’m home.” He sighs. Beside fish congee, he can see Shen Wei has made hua juan, and steamed eggs. All the things he’s most likely to be able to stomach when his gastritis is at its worst. A curl of hunger twinges in his belly. “Can we eat?”
Shen Wei turns his head, and Zhao Yunlan can see the crook of his smile. That one gesture tells a whole story – of relief, and thankfulness, and even a hint of pride. Truly, his Xiao Wei is too good.
“Of course. A-Lan – of course.”
Zhao Yunlan gives him a squeeze, and goes to set the table.
END