Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lazily, akin to a satisfied cat sleeping soundly on a sun-covered patch of grass, summer starts to approach the gates of Siji Manor.

Hot, humid weather is slowly creeping in, changing not only the state of nature, but also the entire atmosphere surrounding the estate. The disciples have finally abandoned their heavier, warmer attire in favor of lighter robes, and their motivation to train their martial arts has simultaneously become slightly weaker than usual, much to their shifu’s exasperation. The flowers, now in full bloom and reaching the peak of their beauty, are tended to by Han Ying’s skilled hands, leaving Wen Kexing, as always, in charge of the kitchen. He prepares light but hearty dishes filled with greens and all kinds of herbs, and then tastes his own creations on Zhou Zishu’s wine-stained lips as the moon bears witness to their love.

Their life isn’t perfect, but Zhou Zishu thinks that it is good, which is already more than he both could have dreamed of and should have gotten to experience. He knows that with his bloodstained hands and a heart dark and shriveled like a burnt-out candle wick, he doesn’t deserve any of it, but it still means the world to him that he gets to have this — that he’s able to spend his days in the company of the other half of his soul without it having to be on borrowed time, able to witness his silly little boy grow into a silly young man that every single master could be proud of, able to hold an innocent child in his arms and not have to think about spilling their blood for a noble cause.

And to think that mere months ago, at what he had thought was the end of it all, he wasn’t even able to properly hear Wen Kexing anymore—

Indeed, life is good, and that’s something it hasn’t really been for Zhou Zishu ever since he was still a naive kid that knew nothing of the world, a kid whose greatest joy was that he could spend a carefree summer — the last one for years to come — being eagerly followed by a younger boy with a shy smile and worship in his eyes, sparring and running around and laughing with him until the fates would decide that the playtime was over for them both.

He knows that Wen Kexing agrees on that. As hard as it is for him sometimes — still more often than not, although certainly less than during their first weeks back in the manor — to turn around, reach out to put an arm on his meimei’s shoulder and realize she is nowhere to be found, he is trying his best every single day, and Zhou Zishu makes sure to tell him that every single night. Lao Wen, my Lao Wen. I loved you when you were a ghost, he once whispered, cradling Wen Kexing’s tear-stained face after his nightmare had shaken them both awake, so what makes you think I won’t when you’ve come back to the human world?

There are also the days where it has to be Wen Kexing’s turn to hold Zhou Zishu — to allow his A-Xu’s calloused, scarred hands to touch and feel and understand, with all of his newly restored senses, that Wen Kexing is here, alive and well and not going anywhere. On some of those days, Zhou Zishu is still so angry with him that he cannot speak, resorting to kisses so passionate they leave Wen Kexing’s mouth bruised, and sometimes he begs Wen Kexing to take him apart instead so that his quiet cries and teary eyes could be seen as nothing more than signs of pleasure.

Perhaps, him and Wen Kexing, they will always remain who they are now — two broken men who had lost it all, but most importantly themselves — yet at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter, not when they have found a home in each other. 

However, the current, rather peaceful state of affairs eventually comes crashing down, as it’s usually bound to do, but even then the impact is still unexpected like rainfall on a sunny day and unbearable like a scorching heatwave. The very same morning that the first basket of the year is eagerly filled with freshly plucked peaches by an overjoyed Zhang Chengling, bringing along cheerful laughter echoing down the halls and a promise of a sweet evening celebration, a letter from the South is delivered to Zhou Zishu’s study.

Written in Prince Nan’ning’s impeccable calligraphy, it reads: Zishu, as much as I do not wish to disturb the tranquility of your life in Siji Manor, I would not want to keep this from you. I have recently received the news that the Crown Prince of the North has passed away in his sleep. Then, below, in smaller letters, each stroke visibly less careful, as if someone wanted to get his thoughts out as soon as possible without Jing Beiyuan realizing: As I unfortunately had nothing to do with said affair, I regret to inform you that it was peaceful.

The letter does not end there — Jing Beiyuan wonders if his best friend would perhaps like to pay him a visit and take his wife to one of the upcoming Nanjiang festivities (the wine, Zishu! I guarantee you, the wine is unlike anything you’ve ever tasted before), and Wu Xi chimes in with the latest updates on his training with Xie Wang (the kid has stopped threatening to poison us all, which my Little Venom says he shall count as progress) — but Zhou Zishu cannot make out the words, his vision suddenly getting blurry. The memories flash before his eyes, sudden like a roaring thunder splitting the skies in half. The last time—

Zi… Zishu? What…?

Prince!

No! Don’t… kill him…

The last time Zhou Zishu saw the man to whom he had devoted half of his life, along with the entirety of his dignity and the last remnants of his innocence, Jin Wang looked absolutely devastated. It was as if Zhou Zishu had pierced a sword straight through his heart, even though that couldn’t have been further away from the truth. The Prince had to be held up by Duan Pengju to speak to his former right-hand one last time, obstructed by his knees failing to support him and his mouth filling with blood, but it hadn’t really been Zhou Zishu’s intention to wound him mortally.

No, Jin Wang was meant to live half a life, as a mere shell of his old self, a bedridden ghost wandering the earth and seeking relief in a form of death — which, as Zhou Zishu knew intimately, was the most cruel of punishments one could bestow upon either others or their own selves — but live, nonetheless, for at least a decade to come. In retrospection, Zhou Zishu should have ultimately known this wouldn’t be the case, but then again, he seemed to have a history of underestimating just how far Jin Wang would be willing to go.

Because, when he directed the very last gaze at the man who was supposed to be his savior, his emperor, his zhiji — the man who was, instead, nothing more but his demise; the man who had thought being tied to someone by blood means the same as being tied by love, by flesh, by choice — Jin Wang’s face was a splitting image of what Zhou Zishu’s own reflection would express, later on, in a half-frozen armory, on a mountaintop at the end of the universe, and mirrored in white-haired Wen Kexing’s unseeing eyes.

It had been utter heartbreak.

I always thought you were the one that knew my soul—

Back in the present, a sudden noise startles Zhou Zishu, and with a quiet gasp he stares at his shaking hands, now holding a crumpled piece of paper that has gotten torn in half in his grasp. He doesn’t understand; doesn’t know why, that even though all he should be feeling is pure relief, there is a sense of sadness creeping into his heart. Maybe, squeezing his chest like a vice, it could even be grief — and what does it say about him, that he would mourn someone who set fire to his home and called it mercy? Someone who claimed to love him, and yet—

He doesn’t dare — cannot bring himself to finish the thought. In spite of the summer sunlight streaming through the window and the heated memory of the flames swallowing the last remnants of his shifu’s legacy, Zhou Zishu shivers. Suddenly, feverishly, as if he would have freezed to death otherwise, he rises from his desk to light a lonely brazier, abandoned weeks ago with the arrival of the new season, yet still not hidden away in case of frost creeping back in. Then, he throws the letter into an open fire, watching it burn until nothing remains except for ash that he can taste on his tongue, its bitterness a faint echo of Jin Wang’s lips pressed to his own.

For the rest of the day, he tries not to think about Jing Beiyuan’s words, about his own reaction to it all, about Jin Wang in general. It’s funny — and maybe it would have even made Zhou Zishu laugh, albeit bitterly, if it wasn’t for the wave of nausea which comes with the realization — how up until now, the man hasn’t even crossed his mind. There had been so much going on — Wen Kexing’s tedious convalescence, slowly rebuilding the manor, the joyous news of Han Ying’s miraculous survival — that Jin Wang’s phantom, a relic of the past, was the least of his concerns. He knows, now, that it was a grave mistake to expect that it would not come back to haunt all of them.

His plan to make up for it is to not mention the letter nor its content to anyone — and because Zhou Zishu is a selfish, cruel coward, anyone means especially Wen Kexing .

It’s hypocritical of him, even more so when he considers his own earlier musings, to always encourage Wen Kexing to talk about his pain if he thinks it might be helpful. He doesn’t push — he knows he’s the only person in the world to be able to force Wen Kexing to do something he doesn’t want, and deliberately chooses not to do so — but doesn’t allow his Lao Wen to wander too far off inside his own head, either. It’s hard to open up your chest and bare your heart open for another person to see, no matter how much you trust them, and so it’s a beautiful gift that Wen Kexing gives him when he decides to speak up, and Zhou Zishu tries to grant him the same thing in return.

Wen Kexing knows more about him than anyone has done before — more than Jin Wang, than Han Ying, than Jing Beiyuan — knows things that Zhou Zishu has never told another soul. All of the cruelty that has stained his soul for eternity, all of the sins buried six feet under, all of the darkest secrets that he swore to take to his grave. Sometimes, Zhou Zishu even thinks that Wen Kexing knows him better than he knows himself. 

What he doesn’t know, however, is this version of Zhou Zishu from the past: a sect leader left by his dead shifu with a tremendous burden on his shoulders whose faith in the world and its kindness was somehow still unshaken; an innocent teenager who wanted to do something just and noble and came to his cousin to seek help in achieving that goal; a young man of sixteen that, at the end of the day, had only one, childlike dream — to have someone who would love him.

He had looked up to Jin Wang ever since they studied together at the Imperial Court. His cousin was older, wiser, more experienced; he knew how to wrap Zhou Zishu around his finger, enchanting him with promises of a bright future, swearing that once he rightfully ascended to the throne, Zhou Zishu would be there by his side, acting as Jin Wang’s sword and shield, opening a window to heaven for the common folk. Left alone, with nothing but shadows of eighty-one of his men, following his every move with hopes to be led to greatness, Zhou Zishu had trusted him — first with his heart and soul, then with his flesh.

When Jin Wang kissed him for the first time, it seemed like everything Zhou Zishu had ever wanted.

A while ago, Wen Kexing told him about his own first kiss. About the man who had taken it without asking, the man who kept taking and taking — until Wen Kexing took his life, painting the walls of his chambers crimson red as if it was a wedding night. There was something heartbreaking in his eyes when he was recalling that day, yet not because of the event itself, but due to fear. His Lao Wen, his stupid, beautiful, loving Lao Wen, had still been scared Zhou Zishu would think of him less if he knew the entire truth, as if there was anything on this earth and in heavens that could force Zhou Zishu away from him.

This… This is different; the thing that he and Jin Wang had, and why they had it. It’s different, and it’s not that Zhou Zishu is afraid—

He just doesn’t think it’s a story worth telling, that’s all.

There is, however, a part of him, a small chamber inside his mind that he locks and throws away the key in order to stop himself from visiting it again, that is worried; worried that Wen Kexing will not understand — and it is heartless, to doubt the man who is your zhiji, whose soul plays a melody perfectly attuned to your own, yet how could Zhou Zishu ever say these words to his face?

There are moments where I think about when he was still good to me. He wasn’t always a heartless monster, you know? 

I wanted this. I trusted him. I loved him. I don’t know when I stopped, I only know that I did.

Something inside of me misses him. I hate that, but maybe it always will.

No, he has decided: he will not burden Wen Kexing with this. It’s enough to watch him struggle with his own mind and the constant reminders of the mistakes that have cost him his A-Xiang. Zhou Zishu has burned the letter, which means he destroyed what had still been tying him and Jin Wang together, that he has carved Jin Wang’s memory out of his chest. Eventually, he will forget about him, but it’s only fair that such a wound needs some time to heal — of all people in the world, having already cut himself open seven times to repent for his sins, he would know it best.

Before returning to the bedroom after finishing his duties for the day, he pulls out a parchment and a bottle of ink, then sits back at his desk to compose a reply to Jing Beiyuan:

I am glad to hear from you again so soon, Beiyuan. I would have been interested in the Nanjiang festival anyway, but I have to admit that the wine certainly is the most tempting factor…

He manages to fill the entire page with sweet nothings without mentioning Jin Wang even once. His hand, again, starts to shake slightly as he writes, but he keeps his grip steady — and, as if it was a Tianchuang mission he needs to see through to the end at all cost, he eventually seals the letter and puts it aside to have it sent off the next day. Along with it, he hopes he can seal off at least one part of himself that he has sacrificed for Jin Wang’s sake.

Later on, when they get ready for bed, if Wen Kexing suspects that something is wrong with him, he doesn’t say a word. His head on Zhou Zishu’s chest is a familiar, comforting weight, and their feet, tangled together underneath the covers, keep Zhou Zishu firmly pressed to the bed. It should feel like being in a cage, allowing someone to have so much control over him again; it does not. He lets Wen Kexing press kisses to his throat, his jaw, the curves of his mouth, then watches him fall asleep, breathing softly against his A-Xu’s collarbone.

Zhou Zishu doesn’t follow him. It is enough to be haunted in the daylight, and he does not wish for his dreams to become as corrupted as he is.

And so, he stays awake the entire night to do what he does best — which is to say, he runs away from the past, the way he has done countless times before — and lies to himself that everything is well, so hard that he actually starts to believe it.

Indeed — life goes on, uncaring for his inner turmoil. In the morning, Wen Kexing kisses him awake, then combs and braids Zhou Zishu’s hair while chatting about his plans for the day. He seems to be in a good mood recently, and Zhou Zishu, meeting his gaze in the mirror, thinks to himself that he would rather pierce a nail through himself again than ruin this. When Wen Kexing is done, he wants to suck Zhou Zishu off, and Zhou Zishu wants to let him, but a knock on the door, announcing the arrival of one of the disciples that has just returned from the morning patrol, mercilessly destroys the moment. At that, his Lao Wen sighs very dramatically and rolls his eyes so hard that Zhou Zishu cannot help but smile.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Lao Wen”, he teases, because it feels like a nice thing to do, it feels normal, and the laugh Wen Kexing gives him in return is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, and that, too, is more than okay.

“Does it matter what suits me or not? My husband is still the prettiest man I have laid my eyes upon, how shall I even dare to compete with him?”

For good measure, Zhou Zishu smacks Wen Kexing’s shoulder for being such a brat, then kisses his nose because he loves the way his Lao Wen scrunches it before letting out his signature whine of “A-Xuuu!”, and then, albeit more than a little unwillingly, he gets up to open the door and finally let that poor, unaware disciple in.

The Prince’s ghost, lurking in the corner of their room, temporarily falls into a slumber.

Although Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing reunite for breakfast, intimacy is still off the table — Zhang Chengling joins them soon enough, smiling so widely that Zhou Zishu cannot even bring himself to get irritated. All three of them usually have their meals with the rest of the manor residents, but once a week, they make sure to meet in a smaller group. Sometimes it’s just the two masters and their first disciple, and sometimes Han Ying appears as well, although not as often. He says it’s because he’s busy and wouldn’t want to keep the rest waiting, but Zhou Zishu knows it’s actually for Zhang Chengling’s sake.

Zhou Zishu has seen a lot of anguish and despair in his life — sometimes coming from cruel, vicious people, having a sudden change of heart when faced with immediate death, but mostly from innocent victims, the very same that Zhou Zishu himself had slaughtered “for the greater good”, of some power-hungry nobles’ bloodthirsty ambitions — but never before had he witnessed the pain that he did when the snow blocking the path down the Mount Changming had melted and he and Wen Kexing could reunite with their boy.

Wu Xi told him that, even with how hard Zhang Chengling had been crying to the point of exhaustion, he had still had to start drugging the kid in order to make him sleep, because that was the only way his little tormented body, along with an even more tormented mind, could get some rest.

Zhou Zishu knows that there’s nothing him or Wen Kexing can do to reverse the damage they have caused their child by foolishly, carelessly racing towards self-destruction, but spending more time with him and making sure he’s aware that they’re not planning to let go of him ever again surely is a good start.

Zhang Chengling tells them that these days, he has been studying the scrolls containing the diagrams of the Longyuan Cabinet mechanisms — the last gift Ye Baiyi had left him before embarking on his very last journey, begging not to be followed by anyone. It’s enough that you idiots had to make my life a pain in the ass, I will not let you mess with my death either, he said, all to a crying Zhang Chengling, speechless Wen Kexing, and a deeply grateful Zhou Zishu. Sometimes, when he doesn’t feel like hiding his vulnerability behind a mask, Wen Kexing tells him how thankful he is for the gift that the old monster had given them, and Zhou Zishu hopes that wherever Ye Baiyi is, he’s found the peace that he couldn’t have in his immortal life.

“Soon, I will even be able to rebuild the traps that we used to have in the courtyard”, Zhang Chengling exclaims, bringing Zhou Zishu’s focus back to the topic at hand. He looks very proud of himself, waving his chopsticks as he speaks, and Wen Kexing has to remind him not to drop his portion of tofu, please and thank you. “Ah, sorry, shufu, I just… I really want to be prepared, just in case… I mean, we’re safe here, but you never know…”

He trails off; whether it’s because of what happened to Siji Manor last time, or due to a painful reminder of his own sect’s tragic fate, Zhou Zishu isn’t sure. He doesn’t even have time to ponder on that, the sudden ringing in his ears overwhelming him completely, like it’s an echo of his failing senses. Another wave of flashbacks hits him with an enormous force — that awful, awful day, when he thought Han Ying had died without saying goodbye, yet another person Zhou Zishu has failed, when he saw Wen Kexing slump to the floor, pale and almost lifeless, when he was forced to stare, helpless, as his home turned to ashes…

I destroyed it to offer you a chance. Jin was your actual homeland.

You couldn’t make a decision. So I made it for you.

I was thinking, if you came back to me—

He has to bite his tongue in order not to scream when Wen Kexing touches his shoulder. Breathing heavily, he stares at his surroundings — a knocked-over cup of wine, Zhang Chengling’s concerned face, his own fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. That means he’s in the manor. A part of him is back in the carriage. He smells Wen Kexing’s signature mix of spices. Plum blossoms mixed with the stench of smoke. Immediately, desperately, he needs to make this stop, to run away, to be alone, anywhere but here, wherever here might even be, he doesn’t know and he needs to be—

“A-Xu?”

“Shifu?”

“I’m okay”, Zhou Zishu forces himself to say. He doesn’t believe it, this time, but he needs Wen Kexing and Zhang Chengling to do so. He swallows, then takes a deep breath with his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he manages to face his Lao Wen without flinching, despite the other’s gaze being so intense that any other person would have cowered in fear. The images have disappeared. Duan Pengju isn’t holding him hostage. No one is dead. And so, his next words, technically, aren’t one-hundred-percent a lie. “I’m okay, I just… felt dizzy, that’s all.”

“Dizzy?”, Wen Kexing repeats. There’s a hint of something in his voice that Zhou Zishu has sworn to never again be the cause of, the kind of fear that threatens to send him into a spiral. He knows that, after everything they’ve been through — Zhou Zishu hiding the nails, then repeatedly refusing help and pushing Wen Kexing away, only to finally force him to almost give up his life so that his own could go on — any possible sign of him feeling even remotely unwell is enough for Wen Kexing to crack, and his heart breaks at the thought. “A-Xu, are… are you sick?”

“Shufu, don’t say that!”, Zhang Chengling, bless his soul, has such unwavering faith in his master that it fills Zhou Zishu with warmth to still be an object of this boy’s trust despite how much he’s hurt him by leaving him behind. Normally, he would have scolded him for that regardless, because of course the little idiot has to think with his heart and not his brain, but because this time it’s in his own favor, he selfishly lets it slide. “Shifu would have surely told us if he was, right?”

“Of course I would, silly”, Zhou Zishu replies, forcing the corners of his mouth to turn up and form a smile. Once more, it is not a lie — he’s perfectly healthy. What plagues him cannot be cured by medicine, not even by Wu Xi’s, and so it shall pass by itself. There is nothing for his little family to worry about. He lays his hand on top of Wen Kexing’s, still resting on his own shoulder, and caresses his knuckles in a soothing manner. “But I’m not. It’s probably the heat. I feel like I’m melting compared to how it was in the armory.”

Wen Kexing lets out a shaky breath; half a sign of relief, half this cute small laugh of his. “We… We could return, if you want to”, he suggests. Even though Zhou Zishu would have been content to spend his days anywhere, as long as Wen Kexing would be by his side, he is perfectly aware that neither of them wish to part from Siji Manor in the near future — especially not now that they’re on the way to restore it to full glory — and that the only reason Wen Kexing says it is to make him feel better.

Yet again, they seem to be playing this twisted game of sacrificing themselves for the other, but maybe that, too, is what they simply are — what they will always be — two selfish monsters, selfless only in one single way that matters the most.

And so, Zhou Zishu shakes his head, squeezes Wen Kexing’s hand, says—

“It’s fine, Lao Wen. I just have to get used to it.”

—and prays that his wife doesn’t ever find out summer heat isn’t the only thing he means.

The rest of the day doesn’t bring any more surprises. Wen Kexing, still looking visibly worried but trying his best not to overwhelm Zhou Zishu with his anxiety, goes off to host his weekly poetry class and Zhou Zishu oversees the trainings of the newest recruits, which, in a way, helps him take his mind off the Jin Wang situation. He still feels something akin to sorrow, though, even if it’s of a different kind, one that somehow has both nothing and everything to do with Tianchuang and the Northern Plains.

Looking at these kids, many of them much younger than he was when he became the Prince’s right hand, he finds himself thinking about all of the eighty-one men that followed his lead as well, only to have the man they looked up to with their entire hearts fail them miserably. He doesn’t want to fail these children now, and yet he is afraid — what if that’s all there is for him? What if he’s always been destined to do just that, to let the people he loves down? What if this — this second chance at life — will one day turn out to be nothing but fate’s cruel joke, a penance for his sins?

Even though he asks himself all of these questions, he doesn’t think he wants to know the answers.

He focuses on the good, instead — on the hope it fills him with to see yet another generation of young martial artists desperately wanting to join the sect that Zhou Zishu used to think would die out along with him, on the laughter that makes the manor brim with life as it echoes through the courtyard, on the sunlight caressing his skin, something he didn’t believe he would ever get to feel again in this lifetime. He focuses on that with all of his might, focuses on it that day, and the next one, and the ones after.

He lights the incense at night in order to scare the ghosts away. He either doesn’t dream or doesn’t remember that he does. He makes sure not to scare Zhang Chengling at breakfast anymore. He picks up wood carving and sketching again. He discusses sect matters with Han Ying as they take tea together. He starts to eat more and forces his silly wife to come up with new recipes. He relishes in the way Wen Kexing worships his body and learns how to not feel like running away or want to cry when the seven ugly scars on his chest get covered in kisses. He laughs, he jokes around, he invents a thousand ways to make Wen Kexing flustered.

He lives — and life is good.

Once again, it is a letter from his best friend that destroys the entire peace Zhou Zishu has built for himself. Jing Beiyuan’s relentlessness is a trait that used to be extremely useful back in the day — when Jin Wang wasn’t so selfish yet, Prince Nan’ning was still a part of their friendship group, and Zhou Zishu hadn’t have to think about how to stage Jing Beiyuan’s death in order to get him out of the capital — but it is also something that Zhou Zishu realizes he might be starting to hate.

Among the usual pleasantries and friendly banter from both Jing Beiyuan and Wu Xi, there is, of course, a long paragraph about Jin Wang’s passing. There, Zhou Zishu finds a particular line that stands out to him and sends shivers down his spine — because how could have he become so blinded by the domestic paradise he and Wen Kexing have created that he didn’t take a much more dangerous possibility into consideration than simply being haunted by misplaced grief?

I do not claim to fully understand what you must be feeling, as thanks to you, I had left that life before I would lose my own. I still regret that I wasn’t able to convince you to follow me that day, but fortunately, you’ve ultimately ended up having a life that you’ve always deserved to lead.

This is exactly why I feel the need to say it: I see what you’re doing, my friend, and I do not intend to push you to talk about the contents of my previous letter, but I shall gladly discuss things with you if you wish to do so. 

If you cannot visit us in the near future, I am willing to travel to Siji myself, as the preparations for the festival have not started just yet. I have asked Ping’an to monitor the situation in the North closely, but so far, although Jin is in shambles and a battle for the throne is bound to follow, there are no signs of a potential threat to either your home or Nanjiang. Still, I understand if you do not want to leave the manor…

Once again, like it’s a cruel echo of the day he found out about Jin Wang’s death, Zhou Zishu feels the frost creeping inside of him, covering his heart with ice. He has forgotten — in all of his sadness and his attempts to make it disappear, as much as due to the happiness he has only just started to allow himself to feel, he’s genuinely forgotten about the civil war looming over the freshly orphaned kingdom.

He knows that retribution might not be the first thing on the minds of the remaining members of the Tianchuang — the ones loyal to Jin Wang that were more than willing to die with him when Zhou Zishu pressed his sword to the Prince’s throat — but as the sect leader, he should have still planned something in advance, should have taken his own advice from years ago, should have known everything, been everywhere—

Jin Wang’s face flashes before his eyes, with that all too familiar heartbreak-fueled anger staining every single one of his features, and Zhou Zishu hears the poison dripping from his words, much like the blood ran down his fingers back then when he tried to push the sword away from himself: Kill me. Kill me! Others will inherit my ambition.

And even with all of Zhou Zishu’s own rage, with all of his threats and boasting and the thousand ways to kill Jin Wang, with all the cruel, twisted things Jin Wang has done to Zhou Zishu in the name of love… They both knew this was the only order given to him by the Prince that Zhou Zishu would never follow, both knew that, no matter how Zhou Zishu had tried to fool himself — is still trying to fool himself, now — destroying Jin Wang’s internal force was, in fact, not a punishment, but his very own cowardice.

The bond between us… is an entanglement of favor and resentment.

Zhou Zishu doesn’t leave his study that day. He spends hours upon hours obsessively studying maps, plans and mechanisms, even though he already knows most of them by heart. He gives orders to rearrange some of the patrol schedules, putting more focus on the borders facing Jin. When someone asks for the reason behind his sudden actions, he gives a vague but convincing answer which is once again a white lie — his friend in Nanjiang has informed him about some commotion brewing in the North, and Zhou Zishu wants to use it as an opportunity to implement some changes — and no one protests nor questions his decisions.

Wen Kexing, obviously, is a different story. He is sulking when, in the evening, he finds Zhou Zishu by his desk and not at the dining table, and force-feeds him the leftover noodles from the dinner until he deems his husband full enough. Then, he sets the almost empty bowl aside and looks intendedly at Zhou Zishu before reaching over to cup his cheeks, fingers stroking the delicate skin underneath his eyes. “You look tired”, he says, and an unspoken question, different from the one he asks next, is apparent in his voice. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to help you?”

Everything inside of Zhou Zishu is screaming yes — yes, Lao Wen, there’s something I want to tell you; yes, the thing is, I have always thought love can only destroy you, but now I think it might just be able to save you, too; yes, I need your help and I need you — but he cannot bring himself to force the word through his lips, even though it feels terrible to deceive Wen Kexing like this, to somehow put his relationship with Jin Wang above the person he loves more than anything in this world. And so, he only shakes his head, then leans in to kiss Wen Kexing, resting his head against his Lao Wen’s afterwards.

“Thank you. But I’m almost done”, he murmurs into Wen Kexing’s skin. He really is — he’s done everything he could today, at least for now, and if the danger comes, he will keep them all safe, at all costs. His wife sighs quietly and runs his fingers through Zhou Zishu’s hair, gently massaging his scalp. A silent satisfied whine escapes Zhou Zishu’s mouth as some of the tension slowly melts away. Maybe like this, it would have been easier to be able to tell Wen Kexing the truth — not looking him in the eyes, yet feeling the warmth of those loving arms around himself — but when he tries, he finds himself failing once again. “I’ll wrap a few things up and then go to bed, I swear.”

“You better”, Wen Kexing replies, a smile finally returning to his face, and moves his hands down Zhou Zishu’s body, letting them rest around his waist. Zhou Zishu, to his surprise given the circumstances, finds himself welcoming the sudden change from his Lao Wen’s careful, shy persona to an insufferably aroused little pest. It’s not like he doesn’t love them both. “Or else I will wear you down so well that you won’t even think about entering that study the next day.”

Zhou Zishu feels his expression involuntarily morph into a perfect mirror of Wen Kexing’s contagiously smitten gaze. He’s still shaken, running on a mixture of adrenaline, fear and guilt, but he desperately needs something else to occupy his mind for a while. He wants to stop feeling so trapped in his own home, to forget, even if for a while, that there are as many horrors in the jianghu as inside of his mind, to kiss Wen Kexing like he’s the only person Zhou Zishu has ever kissed in his life. And so, he deliberately pushes the pile of notes he’s made today aside, and lifts Wen Kexing’s chin with his finger, asking: “Oh? Tell me, Lao Wen, is that a threat or a promise?”

As it turns out not so long after, it has been both. Zhou Zishu feels absolutely and thoroughly wrecked, with not much strength to do anything else besides watching Wen Kexing take care of him — clean him up, refill the water cup, change the incense sticks. Zhou Zishu gets to admire his wife’s beautiful body to his heart’s content, staring unashamedly at the muscles of his arms, his long legs, the scars adorning his back, and thinks about his own flesh, forever marred by countless battles, all for the sake of a man that had never been willing to protect him in return.

How many times had he lied down just like this, after he and Jin Wang had gotten together — naked and vulnerable, yet wrapped around in the smell of wine and expensive oils instead of the arms of someone he had thought he was loved by? When did it all go so wrong that Jin Wang’s genuine care and affection turned into a mere craving for bodily pleasures, and then into nothing but a comfortable habit? Was it after Qin Jiuxiao had died an unnecessary, foolish death because he thought he would save the shixiong he should have hated with his entire heart, or had it started even before that, with Zhou Zishu still too blinded by a desperate need to be loved to notice it?

Zhou Zishu doesn’t remember — does not want to. He knows he will still be plagued by the memories, but he is tired of seeing his cousin’s shadow at every turn of the path he tries his best to walk down, tired of subconsciously comparing what he has now to the past that feels both a lifetime away and hauntingly close, tired of something inside of him forcing him to wonder, even though there is nothing in this world that Zhou Zishu would have wanted if it meant not being with Wen Kexing, what would have happened if he and Jin Wang hadn’t ended up the way they did.

For hundreds of times, when I fell into dreams at midnight, I went back to that flower-blooming yard…

As I turned back, you were by my side.

Wen Kexing finally climbs into the bed, putting a stop to the endless stream of Zhou Zishu’s thoughts. He has let his hair down when Zhou Zishu wasn’t fully paying attention, and its white strands are now tickling Zhou Zishu’s nose, filling his nostrils with a faint scent of Wen Kexing’s favourite jasmine oil. He laughs when he sees that Zhou Zishu can barely contain the need to sneeze, and all that Zhou Zishu can think about in that moment is how terribly he loves this man, how he wouldn’t have traded this for anything — not for the possibility of rebuilding what the fate has destroyed, not even for the promise of his youthful dreams and goals coming true, and certainly not for the chance of start it all over.

Because he gets to keep Wen Kexing now, all of the pain that he has gone through in his life was more than worth it — even losing Jin Wang.

Even realizing what it had really meant to have him.  

And it's only fair that such a wound needs some time to heal.

He falls asleep in Wen Kexing’s embrace, with a hand resting against his heart, surrounded by warmth; but as the night goes by, it is the lack of it that eventually makes him realize he’s actually dreaming when he sees the phantoms start to flicker before his eyes. He had feared this would happen, although, taking the contents of Jing Beiyuan’s letter into consideration, he expected yet another vision of himself, standing helplessly, unable to do anything but witness his beloved Siji being swallowed by the flames.

What he gets instead is this: his own body, kneeling in the middle of the throne room in Jin, with Jin Wang seated on top of the dais — an all too familiar situation. The only exception is the look on the Prince’s face; the usual, small smile of self-satisfaction that Zhou Zishu used to admire so much is replaced by a look of sheer agony, a direct echo of what Zhou Zishu saw during their very last meeting. The version of Zhou Zishu in the dream raises his head from a bow to meet Jin Wang’s stare, and the man lets out a bitter laugh, sounding rather like a choked sob.

“Zishu-ah”, he sighs wearily, shaking his head as if he was about to scold an unruly, disobedient child who broke some very important rule. Sometimes, mostly after Zhou Zishu realized that placing the future of his sect into the hands of a man blind to anything else but his own ambitions was a grave mistake, when he had done things Jin Wang disapproved of, this is exactly how it felt afterwards to be standing before him and listening to all of the reasons why such a behavior is unbecoming of the future emperor’s most trusted subordinate. “You’ve called me ruthless, but don’t you realize just how cruel you are?”

“Wangye, I— ”, Zhou Zishu in the dream begins, but Jin Wang immediately raises his hand to cut him off, the ring on his finger glistening in the daylight, and Zhou Zishu, trained to obey like a faithful pet, keeps his mouth shut. Jin Wang, however, is far from done. As he keeps on speaking, he rises up from the throne to make his way towards Zhou Zishu, and the sound of his steps remind Zhou Zishu of two swords clashing during a fierce battle: “I should have known a traitor’s son would follow in his footsteps, but I wanted to give you a chance. And yet! Everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me?”

He stops in front of Zhou Zishu, then grabs him by the chin and makes him stand up so that they truly face each other — almost as if they were equals, even though Jin Wang’s next words shatter that illusion pretty quickly. “It was you who came to me, begging for help because you had no one else. I gave you everything you had asked for, the shelter and the protection for your people, but what about your promise? What about destroying this dark, corrupted world together with me, and letting the light in?”

Zhou Zishu, knowing there is no answer he could give the Prince that would satisfy or placate him, even if he was able to find the right words to explain himself, still stays quiet. Seeing his expression, Jin Wang scoffs and turns away, as if the sight of Zhou Zishu became too disgusting for him to bear. “You were so eager to follow me. Oh, how you used to crave my attention, to lap up every single praise falling from my lips, to give yourself to me whenever I would ask. Have you already forgotten? Do you want me to remind you?”

Instinctively, Zhou Zishu’s figure from the dream takes a step back, but then Jin Wang immediately faces him again, making him freeze in dreadful anticipation. The Prince closes his eyes, trying to contain the fury rising up in him, and surprisingly, when he speaks up again, his voice is oddly unstable. “Of course you don’t. This was all just a game to you, wasn’t it? Just a way of getting what you wanted. Well, Zhou Zishu, congratulations. You’ve lost it all, your manor, every single one of your men and your precious little shidi. You’ve lost. You’ve played me, and then you played yourself.”

When Jin Wang’s eyes open again, they’re brimming with what looks like unshed tears — but instead, what slowly starts to trail down his cheeks turns out to be blood, pouring out of him like it would from a deep wound, staining his flesh crimson red and melting away all of his features that Zhou Zishu used to love. In spite of it all, Jin Wang gives him one last smile, and, as his mouth fills up with blood, too, he whispers, right into Zhou Zishu’s horrified face:

“We’ll see each other in hell.”

Zhou Zishu wakes up abruptly after that, gasping for air, his chest constricting and his heart rising into his throat — and he immediately hides his face in the pillow when he notices that Wen Kexing, somehow, is still fast asleep, probably due to the new incense he has bought at the market and left at their bedside that evening. Zhou Zishu should wake him up — should tell him that he’s had a nightmare and that he might be having them a lot in the near future, or maybe don’t tell him anything at all, accept that he isn’t an invincible soldier anymore but an ordinary man who breaks just like everyone else does, and then ask to be held, please — but instead, he chooses the obvious alternative.

He runs away.

He throws a robe on his shoulders — somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that he might have taken Wen Kexing’s — and as soon as he’s outside their bedroom, he sprints down the corridors, racing towards the exit to the courtyard. His ears are ringing and his vision gets blurry; he’s not sure whether it’s the panic or the exhaustion, or maybe the sudden aching need to break down in tears. It’s too much, too much for him to bear — after the months he has spent in Siji living without a care in the world, just enjoying the fact that he’s survived, facing the harshness of a reality that has left everything around them in disarray, feels like running at full speed and then crashing straight into a wall.

He does, in fact, crash into something soon after stepping foot outside — or rather, into someone. Only instinct and muscle memory stops him from falling to the ground, and from what he can hear, the other person has also managed to stay up on their feet, the only sign of any impact from their side being a quiet groan of pain. Zhou Zishu gathers enough air in his lungs to speak up and apologize, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Han Ying, which immediately manages to calm him down a little bit as much as it catches him by surprise.

For some reason, it still makes his heart skip a few beats whenever he bumps into Han Ying by accident, despite how much time has passed since he appeared at the gates of Siji Manor, gaunt, dehydrated and in need of immediate medical aid, but undoubtedly alive. Everything that went down after Zhou Zishu was forced to part from him — his capture and the rescue mission led by Wen Kexing, Zhou Zishu pulling out the nails after Wen Kexing’s fake death, A-Xiang letting out her last breaths in her gege’s arms, the Six Harmonies Cultivation ritual and its aftermath — was so intense and fast-paced that he didn’t even have time and space to process Han Ying’s passing, let alone mourn him. To have him back, just like that, is a miracle he is grateful for every single day, yet also one that he is still adjusting to.

“My Lord?”, Han Ying says, then coughs; a slight blush, visible in the lanternlight, creeps up on his face. He, too, has some things he needs to get used to — for example understanding how terribly important he is to Zhou Zishu, and that as long as he chooses to stay in Siji, they are not bound by hierarchy anymore, nor by loyalty forced upon Han Ying by circumstances, but by something he’s chosen for himself, something much more sacred. “...Shixiong , what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Ying’er”, Zhou Zishu replies. He manages a small smile and nudges Han Ying’s shoulder, trying to evoke a sense of normalcy back into his behavior, not even to fool his shidi but to realign himself a little, then hides his shaking hands in the ridiculously big sleeves of Wen Kexing’s fancy night-time robe. Han Ying, looking at him, smiles back, as if he thought Zhou Zishu looked cute in it, which is almost equally as ridiculous as the outfit. “Can’t sleep? Or… are you perhaps sneaking out somewhere?”

Han Ying’s blush deepens at the possible implications behind Zhou Zishu’s words, but he shakes his head. “One of the disciples meant to be on duty tonight isn’t feeling well, so I have offered to replace him. Your turn now”, he says, shuffling a little closer so that the lanterns fully illuminate his face. Only then, paying more attention to his appearance, does Zhou Zishu realize that his Ying’er isn’t wearing his hair tied up in his usual style, a high top-knot bun, but that most of it is let down, only a hastily made ponytail keeping some of the black strands in place.

He doesn’t know why, but something about that look strikes him right into the heart — in a good way. It is as far from how Han Ying looked as a part of Tianchuang as possible, which is exactly what Zhou Zishu needs right now, too; to detach himself from that part of his life, become a little softer, a lot more vulnerable, but maybe, at the end of the day, happier than he has ever thought he could be. That feeling, combined with the effects of the nightmare he’s just had, the bone-deep weariness he has been feeling for weeks now, and the fact that Han Ying is the only person other than Zhou Zishu that knows about almost the entirety of what had truly tied him and Jin Wang together, makes Zhou Zishu decide to drop the pretense after all.

“A bad dream”, he begins, even though it doesn’t entirely feel like it was one, despite the incredibly unrealistic ending. Everything else has been more of a memory, a repeat of something that has already happened before; the words, the accusations, the manipulation. Such an obvious pattern; it’s just that Zhou Zishu used to be too blind to notice it. Now, he keeps his eyes open, and sees the twinkle of concern in Han Ying’s own ones. He knows the boy doesn’t plan on refusing him, that he never has and never will; still, he wants it to be a question and not an order when he asks: “Do you mind if I tell you about it?”

Han Ying rolls his eyes as he replies with, “You know you don’t need to ask, shixiong.”

They find a quiet, secluded spot, further away from the estate and closer to the gardens, Han Ying’s favourite place to be. Zhou Zishu enjoys it as well, and right now it is even more of a blessing — to stare at something sprouting from the ground, and know that it has bloomed underneath their hands; to not feel like all they were made for was destruction. And so, when he speaks up, he plans to keep his eyes on the flowers at first. Taking a deep breath, he says: “A while ago, I received a letter, stating that the Prince of Jin had passed away.”

“I know”, Han Ying interrupts quietly, and Zhou Zishu’s head immediately snaps up, his resolve to not face his companion just yet shattering to dust. Of all the replies he could have expected, this one wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list. Han Ying gives him a slight shrug, a little flustered, almost as if he got caught doing something forbidden. Before Zhou Zishu’s brain shortcircuits, his shidi continues: “Was… was the letter from the Prince Nan’ning, by any chance?”

Oh, that bastard—

Zhou Zishu nods, and despite knowing that as a former member of Tianchuang, Han Ying has had as much right to know about Jin Wang’s death as himself, despite understanding where Jing Beiyuan has been coming from and being glad for the support, he still makes a mental note to write his best friend a very long reply in the morning. Han Ying, in the meantime, goes on, unaware of his shixiong’s carefully concealed fury: “...How are you feeling? I found out… maybe a few days back? At first I wanted to just bring the letter to you, because what business could Lord Seventh have with me? But it was clearly addressed to me, and so I opened it. I… was actually thinking about how to mention this to you.” 

At first, Zhou Zishu doesn’t really grasp the meaning behind Han Ying’s last words, but then it finally dawns on him. Han Ying, with all the knowledge gathered in the Northern capital — with both what Zhou Zishu told him and what he had seen with his own eyes, even though no one should have had — has put the pieces together skillfully enough to realize just how exactly the news must have affected Zhou Zishu. He is not alone. Han Ying understands him. The realization lifts an enormous weight off his shoulders, but the relief is short-lived, replaced by guilt. Wen Kexing should know as well — deserves to know, and despite Zhou Zishu’s initial plan, he doesn’t want to keep this a secret from him forever.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t told you myself. I’m very grateful I can confide in you, Ying’er”, he whispers, taking Han Ying’s hand into his and squeezing it gently. Han Ying squeezes it back and simply looks at him affectionately, waiting — wordlessly and unconditionally accepting whatever Zhou Zishu might want to say, and letting him know that none of his feelings will get judged. When has he matured just like this? And when has Zhou Zishu done the same, enough to pour out his ugly thoughts out loud? “I… I don’t know. I should be happy. I thought I would be when that day comes, and maybe to some extent I am, but most of all I just feel… empty.”

He mentions it all — the hauntings in the broad daylight, the nightmares, the fear of the past that Jin Wang has left behind and the threat of the uncertain future — but doesn’t speak in detail. There are many more things that cross his mind; things that he could say out loud, too, but doesn’t need to, because Han Ying hears them all the same, even if they remain fleeting, melancholic thoughts:

You had accidentally seen us once, his lips on my neck, my hands. tangled in his hair. Back then, being with him felt like being on top of the world. I don’t know why I cannot forget about it, even after learning how it feels to fall from that grace.

He spoke of you when I got taken back to Jin. I wanted to kill him for what he said, for the way he acted, but I would have never had the guts to actually do it. Funny how at the end, in a way, I have still dealt him the final blow.

You know how he was — one minute he could be tender, the next he would become cold-blooded again. I had always thought I could keep that first version of him alive, no matter what, but I was wrong.

He was all that I had known ever since I turned sixteen, and I wanted this — us — to never end. Thirteen years later, and even though there’s nothing I yearn for more, I still cannot get rid of him.

Once he finishes, Han Ying just embraces him, the weight of his body like an anchor tying Zhou Zishu to the shore and not allowing him to sink. He only asks a single question — the one Zhou Zishu has both expected and feared the most, “Have you told him?” — and this time, no further elaboration is needed for him to understand who Han Ying is talking about.

“No”, he admits, but for the first time since this all started, it doesn’t feel like defeat. Something rises within him; a newly found strength that pushes him forward, allowing him to explain: “He… doesn’t know the things you do. I love him, I trust him completely, and I know he feels the same, but this… If he was in my shoes, he would have stabbed the Prince at the first occassion possible, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. I should have been able to do that, yet you’re aware of why I didn’t. But he… I don’t know whether he will accept it if I tell him. I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t.”

Han Ying, still not letting Zhou Zishu out of his arms — and how surreal it is that they’ve found themselves in this position, when Zhou Zishu still remembers how he used to comfort a scared, freshly-recruited orphaned boy he had freed from a cruel slave contract when he was starting to build Tianchuang? — thinks to himself for a while, and then looks to the side, sudden shyness washing over him. “I can’t tell you what he may or may not do, and I know it is not an easy situation. But I think… I think that it is never so easy to fall out of love with someone. It doesn’t matter if the person is good to you or not, it always hurts when it’s over, and you will always want to fight for it.”

Zhou Zishu leans away, feeling a little overwhelmed by Han Ying’s honesty, although it’s only fair that he receives a piece of it after giving so much from himself. He knows, of course, that his Ying’er has loved him for years — has probably realized earlier than Han Ying himself — and Zhou Zishu has always undeniably loved him back, but never in the way Han Ying has craved the most. Still, the boy has remained by his side, serving him faithfully, then almost succeeding in giving up his own life for his sake — and now they’re here, freely talking about two people that have, at different points in their lives, become objects of Zhou Zishu’s desires, something Han Ying could only dream of.

What Han Ying has experienced, although it must have been hard, and the thought of just how much fills Zhou Zishu with sadness and a sense of guilt he will have to start unpacking one day, it cannot be compared to his own feelings for Jin Wang — to over a decade of love and hatred, pleasure and pain, joy and grief; all of them entwined so tightly that the lines between them have long since blurred. Yet, if his shidi can find it in himself to open up about his turmoil to a person he adores so deeply, why can’t Zhou Zishu at least try to do the same?

And, if he had gotten to know Wen Kexing’s darkest secret — if he had found out the “true” identity of Philantropist Wen; a bloodthirsty monster feared and hated by the entire jianghu — only to accept it without batting an eye as yet another part of his beloved, his fated person, his zhiji… Perhaps it is not so impossible to think that Wen Kexing might do the same for him? Perhaps, when Zhou Zishu will stand before him, he, too, will receive the kind of absolution that can only be given by the other part of your soul? Perhaps this entire time, he has been a fool who simply needed someone to spell the obvious truth to him out loud?

I loved you when you were a ghost, so what makes you think I won’t when you’ve come back to the human world?

Overcome by gratitude, Zhou Zishu presses a kiss to Han Ying’s forehead, then immediately opens his mouth to apologize, afraid that due to the mess of emotions brewing up inside of him, he might have overstepped, considering everything Han Ying has just said. His Ying’er, however, covers Zhou Zishu’s mouth with his hand, then says: “Forgive me for the transgression, shixiong, but whatever you wanted to say… save it. Now go to Wen-xiong. And good luck.”

When Zhou Zishu slips back into their room, Wen Kexing is wide awake, curled up on the edge of their bed. He immediately sits up when he notices Zhou Zishu walk in, then pulls him closer, burying his face in the soft flesh of his husband’s belly. Zhou Zishu caresses his hair, murmuring a quiet apology to the top of Wen Kexing’s head. “Shush , A-Xu. Shut up. Don’t be sorry”, his Lao Wen whispers; always quick to comfort Zhou Zishu, even when he is the one hurting. Zhou Zishu feels terrible for doubting him, before it hits him that he never has — that he’s only ever doubted himself. “I shouldn’t have panicked, but I woke up so suddenly, and you weren’t there, and I thought — You were gone.”

“I was. But I’m here now”, Zhou Zishu replies, and this time, he hopes Wen Kexing will understand the double meaning behind it.

Because some things aren’t only black or only white, only right or only wrong. You can say, I went outside, but only for a short walk to the garden, to get some air, or: I went somewhere far away inside my head, but I’ve found my way back to you; I always will, and mean both of these things at once. You can hate someone with every fiber of your being for all the suffering they have caused you, and, at the same time, miss the love that they used to give you. You can let hope into your heart and somehow find a place for it, even amidst all the sorrow.

And Zhou Zishu can be afraid — yet, in spite of it, still open his mouth and have the courage to say:

“Lao Wen… There is something I need to tell you.”