Work Text:
On the fifth day of his mountain convalescence, Zhou Zishu woke to find himself alone for once.
He had spent the first days after waking still mostly asleep, head thickly fogged as if in a fever, conscious for only brief glimpses of time in between stretches of total exhaustion. The moments of consciousness had lengthened only gradually, and always he was attended by a rotating cast: Wu Xi, who was ungentle in his confidence; Jing Qi, who hid his relief with droll humor; Zhang Chengling, who wept and clung and stumbled through his forms to prove that he had practiced while Zhou Zishu was healing (which he probably had, to no discernible effect whatsoever).
And Wen Kexing, who lurked and laid beside him and read aloud for hours, not minding that Zhou Zishu did not yet have the attention span to listen and comprehend; who bathed him and brushed his hair and pinched him for fun; who wrapped his whole long body around Zhou Zishu in the dark and gave Jing Qi the stinkeye because, what, he was good-looking? As if looks were enough to persuade Zhou Zishu to the sort of foolishness Wen Kexing drew out of him.
Those four switched off to eat and sleep and recreate, to the extent that any of their activities could be considered recreation. They had not let Zhou Zishu unattended, or at least he had not noticed it. After five days' rest, he woke and noticed now and was glad for the solitude. The quiet was different with only his breath and the snow outside to break it. With the reconstruction of his meridians he was newly sensitive to everything; noise hurt, and bright light, and his skin felt tender and sunburned. He was still very weak.
He was colder than he was at night, but warmer than he usually was when Wen Kexing was away doing whatever it was he did when he was not bothering Zhou Zishu. He peeked an eye open to look down at himself and saw that someone's inner robe had been left draped over him like an extra blanket; the lower hem was aligned with his feet, the collar open on his chest. It was old and needed a new collar; the edges there were threadbare and slightly yellowed with wear.
You slob, Zhou Zishu thought, and strained to extricate an arm from the blankets, and grab the collar, and pull it up close to his face out of some masochistic curiosity. Was it freshly clean at least? He breathed in: it was not. It smelled faintly of perfume and more strongly of the clean sweat of a man. Someone had bathed and then worn this while he exerted himself. And then laid it over Zhou Zishu. He closed his eyes against something like revulsion.
He had not really known what Wen Kexing smelled like, when he wasn't drenched in perfume. By the time they were often physically close enough to know, his sense of smell had shriveled to nil. Apparently he smelled like this. Zhou Zishu's mouth watered, which it often did when he was nauseated.
He used the last of his strength to roll over onto his side, clutching the robe to his face as he exhaled hard with the effort. This collar had lain against Wen Kexing's bare throat and chest; this back panel across the broad yoke of his shoulders and the sweep of his back. He had worked and sweated and most likely fought in this robe; Zhou Zishu's man was garrulous as often as he was annoying. Zhou Zishu twisted his fingers into the fabric and hid his face in it, still breathing open-mouthed from the exertion of turning over. His breath trapped inside the robe made his face and throat hot. He felt raw and itchy. Wen Kexing thought he could just leave his things everywhere, did he. Spread his life out across Zhou Zishu's life.
He lay there for a long time, feeling dizzy even when he freed his nose from the collar of the robe to breathe freely. He wanted his strength back; he was full of a frenetic energy and wanted to find Wen Kexing and chase him around the mountain, wanted to wrestle and grapple and pin. Get pinned. But he could barely walk to piss. Tomorrow, maybe. He inhaled the smell of a life from the robe and wanted Wen Kexing.
As if called, the door opened, and Wen Kexing slipped silently through. He carried a tray with accoutrements for tea, and he wore thick winter clothes, layers of cotton and silk in shades of gray and black. Where had he disrobed, Zhou Zishu suddenly wondered. Had he stripped right there? How could it have been practical to leave his innermost layer but take the others? "Wen Kexing," he croaked.
Wen Kexing's gaze snapped to him. "A-Xu," he said, and swept to the bed. He laid his tray on the floor as he knelt beside the bed. "I brought you tea. How are you feeling? You're on your side."
"I'm aware," said Zhou Zishu.
Wen Kexing looked him over with his flat black eyes. Zhou Zishu watched him notice the flush in his cheeks and throat, the way he clutched the robe. Wen Kexing's attention felt like hot water seeping over and through him. He said, "I see." Reached out to stroke Zhou Zishu's hair back from his face. Their eyes met and held.
Wen Kexing's fingers slowed, lifted, returned; he stroked the backs of his fingernails through Zhou Zishu's hair, across the side of his neck, down between his shoulder blades. His touch was very light, but Zhou Zishu's reconstructed meridians received it like lightning, sizzling over his scalp and down his spine. He released his grip on the robe to try to bat Wen Kexing's hand away, but Wen Kexing was faster: he grabbed Zhou Zishu's wrist in his free hand and held it fast, pressing it down to cross his other wrist so that he could hold both of Zhou Zishu's wrists in one hand. If Zhou Zishu had his full strength, this maneuver could never hold him, even if it was Wen Kexing doing it: they were too evenly matched.
But they were not evenly matched now. Zhou Zishu swore at him and Wen Kexing laughed. "A-Xu ah, be nice."
"Fuck you," said Zhou Zishu, his head full of how long Wen Kexing's fingers were. He gave a jerking movement to try to wrench himself free, and found himself held fast. It pissed him off, how fragile his wrists looked in Wen Kexing's grasp; but then, it was Wen Kexing, who was bigger than most people and whose hands would make most men's wrists look small. Probably. He just had to work hard and eat enough and he would be less frail, and then Wen Kexing wouldn't be able to hold him down like a kitten.
He struggled again, and Wen Kexing took the hint. He surged up onto the bed beside him and used his grip on Zhou Zishu's wrists to roll him onto his back, pushing his arms up over his head and ducking in close. Stars exploded on the edges of Zhou Zishu's vision with the riot of sensation. "You are so funny," Wen Kexing told him, and then he stuck his thumb into Zhou Zishu's mouth.
Zhou Zishu let him pry his jaw open with a groan. Wen Kexing's thumb was salty with sweat and had a faint odor of tea leaves. He pressed down on the flat of Zhou Zishu's tongue and rubbed the pad of his thumb back and forth, catching the meat of it on the edges of Zhou Zishu's lower incisors.
Zhou Zishu was on fire. He was too keyed up to contain the moan that boiled out of him, and Wen Kexing gave an answering Hah and gripped his jaw tighter. Eye contact seemed impossible, but so was looking away; he was stuck glaring at Wen Kexing as he fucked his thumb in and out of his mouth, feeling overwhelmed and exposed and more aroused than was fair or even comprehensible. Wen Kexing's face was so close to his that every movement of his eyes and his open mouth were intimately visible. He was breathing hard now and kept darting his tongue out to wet his lips. His eyes were very black.
"A-Xu," he breathed. "You freak. Over a year I tried to get you hot, and all it took was — pinning — you — down —"
That wasn't it at all, but Zhou Zishu's mouth was too occupied to protest with anything other than an indignant gasp. Wen Kexing withdrew his thumb and replaced it at once with his tongue, a muscular wet thrust into Zhou Zishu's open mouth that cracked twin whines from each of them. Zhou Zishu's eyes finally closed. He could not struggle, but he could suck and bite and lick — he could kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss —
After unknown minutes of drowning in his mouth, Wen Kexing groaned aloud and pulled away, which was unfair and cruel. They were both panting, although Zhou Zishu was panting harder. He gasped, "No," and, "Come back," and, "Fuck you — come back." Wen Kexing looked at him and moaned again, then thrust his fore and middle fingers into Zhou Zishu's mouth. Zhou Zishu's brain had turned entirely to soup; he closed his eyes and sucked desperately, wishing for Wen Kexing's tongue.
Wen Kexing bent over him to nuzzle their faces together, and then he dipped in again to kiss Zhou Zishu without withdrawing his hand, spreading his fingers in Zhou Zishu's mouth to lick the slick inside of his lower lip between them. Zhou Zishu squeezed his eyes shut, and Wen Kexing murmured, "A-Xu ah, you're really desperate, huh?"
"Shut up," Zhou Zishu managed around his fingers, and Wen Kexing laughed, low and rough in his throat. His fingers were big and angular, hot and slick with spit. Zhou Zishu whined and fucked his tongue between them, half-consciously twisting his legs in the blankets; he was desperate, he wanted Wen Kexing on top of him. He was so hard he could barely think, his internal monologue replaced by a mute, shapeless, seering desire, and the whole of his newly reborn senses were focused on Wen Kexing: his taste and his smell, and how warm he was, and how heavy — and he was very strong.
Wen Kexing withdrew his fingers again from Zhou Zishu's mouth, but kept them close, smearing hot spit across his face and stroking his lower lip with his thumb. "You're so easy," he marveled in a whisper. "My husband is so filthy, I had no idea." His hand began to trail down, torturously slow down Zhou Zishu's throat. When he reached the clavicle, his touch lightened until it disappeared. His breath came hot and humid at Zhou Zishu's jaw.
Zhou Zishu shuddered and bared his teeth through a groan. "I'll kill you," he gasped.
"Yes," Wen Kexing agreed, kissed him, and laid his hand flat on Zhou Zishu's lower belly.
The pressure of his hand on the blankets wasn't where he wanted it, but it was close enough; the air froze in Zhou Zishu's chest, and he came with a thin cry, jacking his hips up against Wen Kexing's hand. His arms strained above him, his wrists still pinned in place by Wen Kexing's grip, the two points of pressure taking up disproportionate space in his head as pleasure crashed through him, dizzying and almost painful in its intensity. He heaved for breath, his mouth open, eyes wide, and through it all Wen Kexing watched him with a single-minded focus that would have bordered on disturbing if it weren't so fucking hot.
Zhou Zishu panted raggedly as he came down, shivering intermittently with aftershocks. Eventually Wen Kexing released his wrists and lowered his arms for him, running his fingers along Zhou Zishu's forearms and the backs of his hands. Then he moved to wipe under Zhou Zishu's eyes, and Zhou Zishu realized with horror that his hands had come away wet; but Wen Kexing had the uncharacteristic good grace not to say anything about it. He just leaned in and kissed Zhou Zishu again, gentle this time, and upon pulling away he said, "You are very beautiful," and finally climbed fully up onto the bed beside him.
Zhou Zishu ignored that wretched comment in favor of waiting patiently while Wen Kexing wriggled around, shoving his arm under the pillow to pull himself closer before settling in. Once he seemed satisfied, Zhou Zishu turned his head towards him and nuzzled their faces together, mostly to rub the drool off his chin. "I'm tired," he said against Wen Kexing's mouth. "Clean me up."
"In a minute," Wen Kexing said, snuggling closer. "My husband has finally let me ravish him. I have to bask."
"Who's ravished," croaked Zhou Zishu, his face heating uncontrollably. He reached up with a hand trembling from exhaustion and gave Wen Kexing's hair a clumsy stroke. "Next time we do that I'm on top," he said.
Wen Kexing's face split into a horrid grin. "Is that what you think?"
"Yes? It's my turn?"
"I didn't even come," said Wen Kexing. "I serviced you selflessly. I should get to fuck you next."
"It's not my fault you have no foresight," said Zhou Zishu. "When I fuck you I'll make sure to come. I'm not an idiot."
Wen Kexing barked a laugh and propped himself up on one elbow to loom over Zhou Zishu. "But A-Xu, all I have to do is hold you down and you start begging for me," he said. "I think I'm fucking you next."
"Shut up!" Zhou Zishu sputtered, "Shut up shut up shut up. It was — extenuating circumstances, that's not going to work forever!"
"Oh," said Wen Kexing, nodding sagely, "So I should take advantage of you while I can, is that so?"
"I — No!"
"Hmmmm."
When Wu Xi burst into the room a short time later, having heard a crash, he found Zhou Zishu had made it out of bed after all and was currently trying to grind Wen Kexing's head into the floorboards. There was a cracked teapot rolling away from them, tea spreading across the floor, and Wen Kexing was howling with laughter around Zhou Zishu's hands. And although Zhou Zishu was cursing him and his line with all sorts of shockingly vulgar insults that Wu Xi was surprised he knew — he was laughing too.