New Horizons (6/6) Complete.
Jul. 11th, 2023 08:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silver_sunNew Horizons - part six
Song Lan wakes to the morning sun falling across his face from where it filters in through the cracks in the walls and ceiling, forming patches of light hung with dust motes.
Falling asleep sitting up isn’t an unknown occurrence for him. When he’d been even younger, a child determined to form his golden core, he’d spent hours in meditation, sleeping and then meditating again, never moving his position. His dedication had impressed his teachers and because of that he is aware that there was some disappointment amongst them when he had chosen to leave the Baixue temple for the life of a rogue cultivator rather than to remain there.
All the same, sleeping sitting up isn’t exactly comfortable and he wants to stand and stretch his legs. The difficulty lies in the fact that Xiao Xingchen is still asleep against him. With his head resting on Song Lan’s thigh, his hair tumbles loose from where it had been left untied to dry the previous night.
Brushing it aside, Song Lan lets his hand linger on his forehead. He is only checking for fever, he tells himself. He had no other reason to need to touch him. Xiao Xingchen stirs slightly, nose twitching as the hair that has been brushed aside drags across it, but he doesn’t wake. Instead with a soft, sleepy sound, he leans into Song Lan’s touch.
He is still too warm, but the fever is definitely lower than it had been. There isn’t time for Song Lan to consider anything else however, as a small voice right next to him says, “Is it time to get up now?”
With all his concern focused on Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan realises that he’s failed to notice that Wei Ying is no longer asleep where he’d been the previous night. Instead he is right beside him, at some point having dragged his sleeping mat over, as well as his blanket and toy and gone back to sleep.
Now however he is awake and no doubt full of questions and wanting food.
“Yes, it is,” he replies quietly, not wanting to wake Xiao Xingchen. As much as he would like to let him remain asleep against him, Song Lan has to get up. The fire needs re-lighting, water needs to be collected, food cooked and decisions made about what to do with the day ahead. Later he will need to check the wound again, to make sure it is healing - nothing this time would be left to chance.
Carefully, so as not to disturb him too much, he moves Xiao Xingchen onto his sleeping mat. Folding up his own blanket, he lets him use it as a pillow, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.
“Isn’t Xiao-dage getting up too?” Wei Ying asks as he watches them.
“Not yet, let him sleep,” Song Lan says, realising that he will need to look after the child until Xiao Xingchen is better. Although they don’t immediately need to collect any wood for the fire it is an easy distraction to fill some of the time. “You can help me gather some more wood for the fire. Then we can eat. Do you know what to find? Small pieces to start it burning.”
Wei Ying nods and holds out his hands in an approximation of size that is needed. “I collected sticks for a-niang, and then a-die would cook.”
The moment of enthusiasm dims and Song Lan has little doubt of the reason. Wei Ying is older than he had been when he’d lost his own parents, and for now those memories of them are still fresh, undimmed with the passage of time.
Was it best to let him talk about them, even if it sometimes made him sad? Or would it be better to distract him and speak of other things, letting those bitter-sweet memories fade and become distant things with little power to hurt? They are questions to which Song Lan has no answers, not for Wei Ying, or even for his own younger self. Would it have helped if people had helped him remember his own family? Or would it have made the loss worse? He thinks of Xiao Xingchen’s distress at revealing that he had no memory of his family at all, how he’d been abandoned. No, having no memory of them wasn’t a guaranteed help either. The mind would attempt to fill in what was missing, and whether it would provide something that helped or hurt was far from certain.
“They must have been very proud of you,” he says, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s what Xiao Xingchen would do, he tells himself, which means that it is likely to be the right thing. All the same it feels strange and Wei Ying looks at him like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do or say now.
After a few moments it’s awkward and Song Lan withdraws his hand, saying, “Do not go too far when we are outside. We do not know this place, and I do not want you to get lost.”
“I won’t,” Wei Ying says. “Will Xiao-dage be alright by himself?”
“Yes, we will be close by.”
Finding anything that is dry after the previous night’s rain is something of a challenge, so as soon as they have a few sticks, Song Lan suggests that perhaps Wei Ying could collect some food for Turnip instead. The donkey wouldn’t mind that the grass or plants were wet. It’s something that he happily agrees to, and Song Lan hopes that he can find enough things to keep him occupied for the rest of the day. There was a limit to how much Turnip could eat.
There is enough wood to light the fire stored from the previous night and Song Lan gets breakfast started. Although he had planned to make pancakes, as well as extra to take with them for lunch on the road, now that it is time to cook he decides against it. There is no likelihood of travelling today. Tomorrow, hopefully Xiao Xingchen will be well enough for them to continue. The green onions he bought to add to the pancakes would keep another day.
Tired from his own broken night’s sleep and his continuing worry over Xiao Xingchen’s health, he doesn’t feel much like cooking. Food is important for health however, so he chooses to make congee again. Then by the time it is done Xiao Xingchen will hopefully be awake and will feel well enough to eat with them.
He is not, but Song Lan hesitates to wake him. His sleep seems peaceful, the fever low enough not to disturb his rest. So he sets Xingchen’s share of breakfast aside to keep warm for when he wakes.
Wei Ying doesn’t appear to mind having the same meal as the previous evening, waiting eagerly for it to be cooked and pushing more small twigs into the fire to try and hurry it along. Song Lan doesn’t want to think about how many hungry days the child had been through, how he’d competed with the stray dogs in the market for scraps, like the discarded pancake they had found him with.
“Song-dage,” Wei Ying asks, once he’s almost finished his breakfast. “Did you live with Xiao-dage when you were little?”
“No, I met Xingchen last year. We had both not long left our homes to travel and help people.” It’s a fond memory, the two of them meeting on the road. It had been the spring of the previous year, the tree lined road bright with sunlight and cherry blossom, when he’d seen him. He’d seemed almost to glow in the sun, the spring breeze moving his hair and showering him with petals. It had been like meeting a god descended from the heavens.
“Oh.” He stirs the last of his congee round with a spoon for a moment. “Are you and Xiao-dage married, like a-niang and a-die?”
The question takes Song Lan by surprise, and for a moment he feels wrong footed by it, flustered by things he’s never spoken aloud to any one. “No,” he says finally, although it feels like a lie. “It is not like that between us.”
Wei Ying looks disappointed, but doesn’t say anything more as finishes his breakfast quietly.
It isn’t the end of the conversation, Song Lan finds. Because once breakfast is done, their bowls and pan washed and left to dry, Wei Ying asks, “Are you going to get married to someone? Will Xiao-dage get married too?”
Marriage isn’t something that he’s ever contemplated for himself. When the other young men at the Baixue temple were starting to talk of women and occasionally men, he had felt nothing. Or at least nothing beyond the usual disquiet that came with the thought of anyone touching him. The talk of courting and what came next hadn’t appealed to him all.
He frowns. Yet weren’t those things the same feelings that he’s been having towards Xiao Xingchen in increasing frequency the longer they have been together. Thoughts of wanting to hold him, to feel his hand in his, to listen to him talk, to see him smile. Are they the same as what they’d meant or just something similar? It’s confusing, it makes him feel not like himself, but in a way that is more wonderful than frightening.
“Are you cross?” Wei Ying asks, sounding worried that he has done something bad.
“I am not cross with you,” he replies, not wanting to scare the child. “I was thinking.”
“About who you're going to marry? Are they very pretty?” Wei Ying asks again, “Will they live with us too? Xiao-dage was really sad when he thought you might not stay, so you can’t go away.”
“There will be no one else. I will not leave him.” It is by far the easiest question that Wei Ying has asked him. “He is my friend.” It’s far more than that, but he can’t find the words. He can’t explain to a child how Xiao Xingchen feels like the other half of his own soul, how he feels at peace with him by his side, like there was something fundamental missing in his life until he’d met him.
“So you’re going to stay together forever?” he asks, sounding like he would be happy if that was true.
Forever is a very long time, yet in this moment it feels like it would be barely enough, and he replies simply, “Yes.”
It’s an answer that makes Wei Ying look more confused rather than less. “But if you like him lots and lots and want to stay together forever, isn’t that the same as getting married?”
Part of Song Lan wants to tell him that it is far more complicated than that, that when Wei Ying is older he will understand that it just is. Yet is it? With no responsibility to any sect or family to consider they were both free to follow their hearts. Yet what if, in the end, Xingchen’s heart didn’t feel the same as his? “We are both young,” he replies, not wanting to leave him waiting any longer. “There are many years ahead of us to think of such things.”
The look Wei Ying gives him seems to suggest the child thinks he is actually old, but he doesn’t say it. To Song Lan’s surprise he doesn’t ask any more questions at all, deciding instead that it is time for him to talk to Turnip instead.
It is a relief to have time to stop and gather his own thoughts for a moment, even if those thoughts now are filled with thoughts of how he wants Xiao Xingchen to remain at his side. He watches him sleep for a short time, sunlight falling across his face. He is trying to discern if he needs anything, he tells himself, and whether being woken up to eat and drink would be more beneficial than sleeping alone.
The decision of whether to wake him is removed when Xiao Xingchen stirs, sitting up slowly and awkwardly as he tries not to place any pressure on his injured arm. “Zichen, there you are.” He blinks looking around, like he is having to try hard to focus on anything. “Where…where’s A-Ying?”
“Talking to his donkey,” Song Lan replies, kneeling down beside. “Do not worry. He has had breakfast. I have looked after him, he has been no trouble.”
“Good. That’s good.” Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes, weariness dragging him back down until he is lying with his head on the folded cloak. “I really am useless today.”
“Not useless. You are unwell.” He settles the blanket back over him that had slipped loose when he’d sat up. “You should eat something before you sleep again. There is still some congee from breakfast. You will feel better if you eat.”
Xiao Xingchen considers it for a moment, then says, “I won’t.”
He sounds so weak that Song Lan feels the fear from the previous building again. “You should try. If you feel too weak, I can feed you. I do not mind.”
“Don’t.” He turns away. “Please don’t.”
Even more worried now, Song Lan moves round so that he is facing him once more. He brushes the sweat damp hair from his forehead, feeling the lingering low fever that still hasn’t broken. “Xingchen, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t eat it, I really can’t,” he replies, barely more than a whisper. “I’ll be sick if I do. The room feels like it’s spinning, and the floor is going up and down, and it won’t stop.”
“Even if you cannot eat, you must drink,” Song Lan says, trying to hide his fears behind practicality. “It does not have to be much, but it must be something. You still have a fever, so you must drink or it will become worse.”
Xiao Xingchen makes a small, unhappy noise, but nods all the same.
The next half hour is spent with Xingchen, leaning against him, too dizzy to sit up for long by himself, slowly drinking small sips of water from a cup Song Lan holds to his lips. It’s frightening to see him so weak. Even though he is very slim for his height there has never been a sense of fragility in it, just lithe energy and gracefulness that few can match. Now though there is, his sickness having drained that bright spark of life from him, leaving him limp and listless.
He listens to the wind in the trees and bamboo outside and to Wei Ying talking to Turnip about leaves. He seems to be trying to find ones that are the same colour as the donkey. He sounds happy at least, Song Lan thinks, turning his attention back to Xiao Xingchen and back to what he needs to do next.
Checking and redressing the wound is a miserable experience. Although Xingchen manages to stay conscious throughout this time, it is hardly a blessing as any contact with the injury is still very painful for him. The only comfort is that it’s done for another day and that perhaps tomorrow it will have improved.
By the time that Wei Ying comes back inside, Xiao Xingchen is asleep once more, and Song Lan has turned his attention to thinking what he can make for lunch.
Song Lan expects that he will be full of questions as he had been at breakfast, however Wei Ying doesn’t. Rather, he smiles up at him, a pile of apples in his arms. “Turnip found the tree, but I climbed it,” he says proudly, “He always knows where there’s food. He should be called greedy turnip.”
It would make sense that people who had once tended the temple would have gardens for food. For the most part, given how long it appeared to have been abandoned, nature would have reclaimed even the most carefully tended plots. Fruit trees however would persist, even seeding more from their fruit. It is a little late in the year for apples and the fruit Wei Ying has brought in with him is past its best, but it is still edible.
Song Lan’s first instinct is to tell him that he should be careful when he climbs, that he could fall. The big, bright smile however means he doesn’t. “Are they sweet apples?”
“I didn’t eat any yet,” he says. “There weren’t many left,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Not nice ones. Turnip liked the squashy ones on the ground.”
He puts them down on the floor, his arms getting tired. “We have to share them.” He looks at the small pile of apples, chooses the nicest of them and then puts it to one side.
“Is that one for you?” Song Lan asks.
“No,” he replies, sounding as if it never occurred to him that it should be his. “It’s for Xiao-dage, so he feels better.”
“That’s very kind.”
“A-Niang always said I should be.” Wei Ying’s happiness at finding the apples fades. “Song-dage, will Xiao-dage be alright?” He looks at where Xingchen is asleep once more, a slight frown on his face, discomfort seeping into his dreams. “He’s not…he’s not going to go away, is he?”
“Away? He can’t travel yet, maybe tomorrow we…” It takes a moment but the reality of what Wei Ying really means catches him, cold fear rising up. “No, A-Ying, no. He is getting better already. He isn’t going to leave us.”
Wei Ying nods, but there is something lost and older than his young years in his eyes. “He won’t mean to. A-niang and A-die didn’t mean to, but they’re gone.” His lip starts to wobble. “They’re gone and they’re never coming back.”
Death is a difficult subject, especially for someone as young as Wei Ying. Even the knowledge that his parents' spirits will live on to be reborn into new lives might not give comfort. Because within that new life they will have, their memories of their child will be gone. It is as it is meant to be, no one could live happily with the memories of so many lives in their head, but for an orphaned child who wants them as they were it feels like another form of loss. At least that was how it had felt to Song Lan himself when, as a child, it had been explained to him.
“It is not the same situation,” Song Lan says, not sure of the best way to explain it. He is uncertain whether Xiao Xingchen has told Wei Ying that they had killed the yaoguai or that it was the same creature that killed his parents that gave him his wound. “Fighting the creatures we face can be dangerous, but it is right that we try. We all live together in this world and there are many who rely on us to make it a safer place.”
He motions for Wei Ying to sit down, before sitting on the floor. “Not everyone can be a cultivator, nor can everyone be a farmer or a weaver. Yet we all need food and clothes and to be safe. So cultivators like your A-Niang and A-die, like myself and Xingchen, and the cultivators of the great and small sects alike must work together to make everywhere safe enough for those farmers and weavers so they can make the things we like to eat and wear.”
Wei Ying doesn’t look particularly comforted or reassured by this, and Song Lan wonders if he has made things worse, if he has made it sound as if the world is filled with danger at every turn and has frightened him.
“Do you know what a golden core is?” he asks, trying to distract him. “Or why is it important that we train it? ”
There is a slight nod.
“It can help us get better when we aren’t well and to heal faster if we are hurt,” he says, trying not to allow in his own worries about Xingchen’s health. Picking up one of the apples he hands it to Wei Ying. “Eat. I will tell you of the other things it can do. How it can help you fight, to help others and even to fly.”
The mention of being able to fly gets a spark of interest and Wei Ying takes a big bite of the apple and waits to hear more.
—-
For a day where he has done little apart from sit and talk, and occasionally cook, Song Lan feels impossibly weary by the time night has drawn in. He’d entertained Wei Ying the best that he could, he’d talked of what it meant to have a golden core and become a cultivator, about travelling by sword high above the ground, then he’d let him help making soup, before letting him practice his writing in the ash by the fire. Finally when it had grown late, he’d helped him get ready for bed and talked to him about his own childhood at the Baixue temple.
The only one left awake, he sits by the fire, watching the flames. He rubs his eyes, tired and gritty feeling from too long awake. There was nothing pressing that he needed to do. The sensible course of action would be to follow his usual routine and get ready to sleep. Perhaps if he meditates for a short time the feelings and fears that have been plaguing him all day will recede, become smaller and more manageable.
He has barely had time to remove his outer clothes and sit down when he hears his name.
“Zichen.” Xiao Xingchen’s voice is soft and a little fragile in the dark. “Zichen, are you awake?”
“Yes, what is wrong?” Song Lan replies, leaving his own bed and sitting down beside him.
“I don’t know.” There is an edge of fear to it. “I don’t feel right, but I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
The reason is apparent as soon as Song Lan places a hand on his forehead. The fever that had been dimmed through the day is rising again. It’s not dangerously high, but it is definitely enough to make Xiao Xingchen feel unwell again.
“I will get you some water.”
Xiao Xingchen catches his hand, a little uncoordinated as he pulls it back against his forehead. “Don’t go.”
“Does it help?”
There is a small hum of agreement.
As he had done the night before, Song Lan sits so that Xiao Xingchen can rest with his head on his lap. He strokes his hair and talks to him quietly of what he has done today and of Wei Ying. He avoids mentioning the conversation about marriage, his own feelings still too uncertain and tangled.
Despite making sure Xiao Xingchen is lying comfortably and is able to rest, his fever continues to climb, until once more he is shivering, sweat beading on his forehead. He does leave him briefly to get water, feeding him small sips of it until Xiao Xingchen can no longer stay awake.
He talks in his sleep, nonsensical fragments of things from fever dreams. Everytime Song Lan removes his hand from his head he whimpers in his sleep, distressed at the loss of contact. So he stays awake, long, dark hours slipping by as he pours energy into him trying to help him heal and strokes his hair, as it seems to be the only thing that comforts him. He’s exhausted by it, but he refuses to rest while Xiao Xingchen needs him. Midnight passes and still the fever burns on, hotter now that the cooling grey ash that is all that remains of the untended fire.
Tonight Wei Ying sleeps on untroubled. No doubt tomorrow he would have more questions, and Song Lan wonders if he should start teaching the child a little about cultivation - as a child of two cultivators he should be given the opportunity to follow the same path. Those would be easier questions to deal with than the ones about marriage or loss and death.
Worries always seem more pronounced in the dark. Images of He Zhou, the yaoguai’s last victim, come to him. How the man had lingered in fever and pain for a few days before his death. He remembers the man’s son, just a young boy, clinging to his mother, asking them if they killed monsters. Now she would have to speak to him about death. The house was so small perhaps the child had even been there to witness his father’s passing.
The image in his mind changes, now it is of Wei Ying clinging to him, small and scared and facing another death in his young life. He feels choked by it, broken in a way he never wants to feel.
“Don’t leave me,” Song Lan says softly, “I don’t know how to be without you.”
There is nothing to suggest that his words have been heard, he’s not even sure that he wants them to be. Now is not the time to burden him with his fears. Because they are just fears, unjustified ones he hopes, as he closes his eyes and tries not to think.
There is no great crisis or any moment of total despair where life seems to hang in the balance. When the fever finally breaks in the early hours of the morning, it does so slowly, dropping away until Xiao Xingchen is resting peacefully against him.
Exhausted after having little more than a handful of hours of sleep in the past two days and the realisation that the worst has passed, and that Xingchen is recovering, leaves him feeling shaky with tiredness and relief.
There are a few hours left until dawn, and spending another night sleeping sitting up isn’t something that Song Lan wishes to do. He needs to get some rest if he is to be of any use in the morning, and help Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying through the day.
Equally though he cannot bring himself to give up the closeness of having Xingchen there in his arms. The fear of losing him remains far too real, weariness turning it into a spectre, haunting the edges of his consciousness, ready to pounce when he sleeps.
For tonight he will sleep beside him, holding him, keeping him safe. It is only for tonight, he tells himself. Tomorrow, when Xiao Xingchen is getting better, he will be able to push aside his fears. For what remains of tonight however, he needs to have him close, to know that he is alive and healing there in his arms.
It feels impossibly right holding him. He feels weak with it. Emotional, fragile in a way that he is unused to. The relief that Xiao Xingchen is now recovering, will soon be well again, is tempered with the knowledge that once he is this closeness will stop. Because under what other circumstance would they do this? Yet how can he go back to sleeping alone now he knows how it feels to hold him?
If he were more impulsive perhaps he would press a kiss to his hair or forehead, a small gesture of his affection. He looks at the curve of his lips, pink and barely parted.
What would it be like to kiss him? How soft and warm would those lips be? Would they smile as they pressed close?
The thoughts are sudden, so alien to him that he can’t quite believe that they are his. He feels slightly panicked by it, the heat of embarrassment crawling over his skin like insects. He swallows hard, trying to calm himself, but he can feel his heart rate pick up.
What was Xingchen to him? A friend certainly. To say that he is his best friend is also true. In the few months that they have known each other they have grown so close that Song Lan cannot and does not want to imagine a life without him. To call him his Zhiji isn’t an exaggeration either. Xiao Xingchen knows him as well as he knows himself, he is his soulmate, he feels whole when he is with him, complete. There is no expectation of romance or anything more physical, in seeing him as such. Nor however does it preclude it.
Perhaps, Song Lan thinks, he needs to have grown close to Xiao Xingchen to have such feelings. That he cannot feel those kinds of desires with anyone unless he feels completely comfortable with them.
Which only leaves what he is going to do about it.
Xiao Xingchen sighs softly in his sleep and presses even more closely against him. There is no distress now, just a need for continuing closeness and reassurance.
There is only one answer tonight, only one course of action: Do nothing. Because even if tonight is the only time Xiao Xingchen lets him hold him like this, he cannot steal a kiss from him, cannot take what would likely be both their first kiss. No, if it is to happen then Xiao Xingchen has to be awake, has to want it too. He is far too precious for him to consider doing anything else.
For tonight he can hold him, he can keep him safe and warm, he can make sure he is comfortable and cared for. Tomorrow and in the days to come perhaps he will try to find a way to speak of it. He doesn’t know how yet, the words all seem too difficult, the feelings too tangled up in fear of loss and in utter relief. He’d made a mess of speaking to him about Wei Ying, how much more of a mess and hurt feeling would come from him blundering through an incoherent confession of how much he wants to kiss him?
He watches him as he falls asleep. He will remember every moment of it and carry it with him, even if it never happens again, he will know that he can do this.
—--
Morning comes and Xiao Xingchen looks better, if still very tired. While Wei Ying seems to have a boundless amount of energy, and on seeing Xingchen awake and able to sit with them for breakfast, his bright smile is back.
Somehow Song Lan makes it through the day without falling asleep, but weariness drags at him. All the same he cooks for them, fetches water and tends to the fire and occupies Wei Ying’s time with writing when Xiao Xingchen nods off after lunch and sleeps until it’s almost time for their evening meal. He makes the scallion pancakes he’d not made the day before and then helps Xiao Xingchen to get dressed. He helps him use a square of cloth as a sling too, to stop any additional strain being put on the healing wound by moving around.
He sees Xiao Xingchen watching him sometimes, seemingly on the verge of saying something, then either being interrupted by Wei Ying or deciding against it himself.
Finally night falls once more, and they are the only ones left awake, Wei Ying having tired himself out with a day of running and climbing, talking and playing.
They hadn’t planned to be on the road for as long as they have, so while they still have supplies, buying more in the next few days will be needed if they are not to end up eating plain rice with whatever edible plants Song Lan can gather. In the slightly longer term they will need to earn some money.
They should really continue on their way to Jinsha in the morning, but he doesn’t want to push Xiao Xingchen if he isn’t ready. Perhaps Xingchen could ride Turnip for some of the time. Then at Jinsha he could take care of Wei Ying while Song Lan dealt with the haunting by himself. It could work. Yet equally it could all go horribly wrong. What if…
“Zichen, I can see you worrying from here,” Xiao Xingchen says, “I’m fine now, so please stop.”
Fine is something of an overstatement statement. As fine, Song Lan thinks, wouldn’t involve Xiao Xingchen wearing a sling. Fine also didn’t include the fact that his arm was still so sore that changing the bandage had brought tears to his eyes and left him trembling for half an hour afterwards. It was healing, but Song Lan knew he wouldn’t be fully reassured about it until all that was left was a faint, pain-free line on his skin.
When he hasn’t answered, Xiao Xingchen gets up and goes over to him, sitting down close enough to touch. “Are you alright? You’ve been quiet all day.”
“Am I not usually?” he replies, confused. Did Xiao Xingchen find him loud? If he did he would be the only one who ever had.
“It’s a different quiet. I don’t know how to explain it.” He moves closer still, reaching out to take Song Lan’s hand. He pauses for a moment before he does, giving him a chance to move away if he doesn’t want it. When he doesn’t he closes his hand over his, fingers curling under it, holding on. “You’ve been so good, looking after me and A-Ying. I know you don’t like it, things like this, that it must have been so hard on you, but I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Warmth spreads out from where his hand is being held, wonderful and terrifying in equal measure.
“I have already told you, if it is you I do not mind. Whatever you need, I will do it gladly.”
“What about you?” Xiao Xingchen says, a fingertip gently stroking the side of Song Lan’s hand. “Is there anything that you need? You’ve been so good to me.”
You could ask him to kiss you, Song Lan thinks and then discounts it. He doesn’t want it to end up feeling like a debt between them. Yet what can he say? He has to say something.
Abruptly Xiao Xingchen lets go of his hand and his heart sinks. He’s ruined the moment again by not having the words to explain.
Yet it isn’t annoyance or irritation that is in Xiao Xingchen’s eyes as he looks at him, it’s concern that is growing by the moment. “Please don’t cry, Zichen. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to do something nice for you.”
“I’m not.”
Leaning in, Xiao Xingchen cups his cheek in his hand, thumb gliding across it, sweeping away the wetness it finds there. “You are.”
Reaching up, Song Lan wipes his other cheek. He wants to apologise for it. He can’t remember the last time he cried. Why now? Although perhaps why not sooner would have been a better question. The truth of the matter is that he, like Xiao Xingchen, is only nineteen and the past few days have been a lot. The fear that he could have lost Xingchen, lost the only person who seems to truly understand him, the only person who he truly feels comfortable with, feels like a stone in his chest. Seeing Wei Ying’s sadness at his lost parents and remembering his own childhood, how he has almost no memories left of his family, hadn’t been easy either.
A stray tear falls as far as his mouth and Xiao Xingchen brushes it gently away. Song Lan closes his eyes with a sigh, the soft sweep of his tear-damp finger across his lips bringing thoughts of kissing him to the fore once more.
“Was that too much?”
“It is not. It is…” He stops. His heart is beating too fast, nervous, excited. He should tell Xiao Xingchen how he has come to feel about him. He should do it now before he talks himself out of it, telling himself there will be a better time. He tries to take a steadying breath, but he feels almost lightheaded with what he is about to do. “Last night,” he says, the words falling out in a rush. “I really wanted to kiss you.”
“Oh.” Xiao Xingchen smiles, a little shy at first, then brighter. Surprised, but happy as he asks, “Then why didn’t you?”
“You were sleeping. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“I’m awake now,” Xiao Xingchen says, his gaze dropping from Song Lan’s eyes to his lips. “You don’t have to, not if you’ve changed your mind.”
Words trip him up too often, they come out wrong or at least aren’t interrupted in the way he means them. Actions however, those he can be certain of, so with the firelight dancing in Xiao Xingchen’s eyes, Song Lan leans in and kisses him.
It’s warm and a little awkward, because neither of them particularly know what they are doing beyond that. Xiao Xingchen however seems very enthusiastic about getting better at it. Although limited a little by having his arm in a sling, his other is curls around Song Lan’s shoulders, fingers dipping just below the neckline of the clothes, stroking skin that is unused to touch. It makes him shiver in a way that feels good.
Xiao Xingchen moves closer. No longer sitting next to him, he sits on Song Lan lap facing him.
It’s hard to know what he’s supposed to do with his own hands. Song Lan keeps one tangled in his hair, while the other rests on his back, fingers splayed wide. He can feel the warm play of muscles in Xiao Xingchen’s back through the fabric. One day it will be bare skin, he thinks caught up in the moment, suddenly very aware that he wants to have that with him, that and more. Not tonight though, maybe not even soon, but eventually. He feels breathless with it and he is almost relieved when Xingchen breaks the kiss.
It’s only a momentary pause, as he doesn’t pull away. Instead Xiao Xingchen kisses along his jaw, then down his neck, before finally at the junction of neck and shoulder.
“You’re shaking,” Xiao Xingchen says, stroking his face again. “It wasn’t too much, was it?”
“No,” he replies. Although perhaps the answer should have been yes. Yet it hadn’t been too much in a bad way. He touches the skin, warm and damp where Xingchen’s mouth had been. “It was good.”
“Can we sleep together tonight?” Xiao Xingchen asks. Still straddling his lap, head resting against his shoulder.
“Tonight?” Nerves twist obscenely in the pit Song Lan’s stomach. A small part of it is excitement, but mostly it’s uncertainty. “Here?” He looks over at where Wei Ying is asleep. They had been quiet enough kissing, but if Xingchen did want more…. He swallows hard, he doesn’t want to disappoint him, but things are moving far too fast for him and he just can’t. “We should wait. When we next get to an inn, once your arm is better. Where it’s private and…”
Lifting his head, Xiao Xingchen looks at him, before he starts to go red. Faint pink flush on his neck at first, climbs up to his cheeks, until he is blushing so much Song Lan can feel the heat of it.
“To sleep,” he manages, before he hides his face against Song Lan’s neck. “I only meant we should go to sleep.”
“That’s good, that’s…” he stops. He feels almost sick with embarrassment. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I think I do. Mean I will, if you want to, that is, but...”
“Not yet. That’s alright, I don’t think I can stay awake much longer,” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding slightly muffled from where his face is still against Song Lan’s neck. He yawns, breath warm against bare skin. “I’ve done nothing today and I’m half asleep.”
“Then we will sleep.”
Although the last two nights have been spent with Xiao Xingchen sleeping against him, this more deliberate act still feels special, new. Placing sleeping mats down beside each other, helping each other take off outer clothing and finally lying down together.
“We spoke once about having a sect of our own one day,” Xiao Xingchen says, once he is settled comfortably in Song Lan’s arms. “Do you remember?”
“Yes.” They had dealt with the unhappy spirit of a young man who had wanted nothing more than to join a sect and become a cultivator, but had failed and had died in an accident trying to prove his use to them. It had been a sad situation, and one that could have been avoided if the sect that the youth had wanted to join had allowed guest disciples to train with them.
They’d stayed awake long past the hour they would normally sleep that night, talking about ideas, about how a sect based on shared ideals, that admitted people based on their willingness to learn rather than their background was something that they wanted to see in the world. It wasn’t only that conversation, they have mentioned it again in passing to each other a few times since. It was a dream for the future. They barely made enough to support themselves as yet, as with less than two years experience, running a whole sect seemed like an impossible task.
“You said that we would need to start small.”
“I did.” Even once they were more established they would not have the resources that other long established sects had, where income from land and property could be used to fund things. Anyone joining them would have a life on the road for much of the time.
He moves in Song Lan’s arms, so that he can see Wei Ying. Curled into his blanket, the child’s dark hair, which is all that is visible, has once again defied any attempts at making it neat and tidy. “He is very small.”
“You want us to train him as a disciple?” Song Lan can’t quite keep the surprise from his voice.
There is a pause and then he says, “You don’t think we should?”
“He is like family to you,” Song Lan replies. It almost feels like a dream to be laying with Xingchen in his arms, discussing raising a child with him. It is not a life he has contemplated at all. “He does not have to be a disciple to stay. That you want him here is enough.”
“Family.” There is something breathy, less than steady in Xiao Xingchen’s voice, as he takes Song Lan’s hand and holds it to his chest, next to his heart. “I didn’t think…” He trails off, the thought of whatever he was going to say too much.
That I wanted one? That I could have one? That you would never agree to it? Song Lan has no way of knowing what Xiao Xingchen was going to say. All seem equally as likely to him, and all make him equally sad. “Whatever you want, if I can do it, I will,” he says. “I want to make you happy.”
“You are. You do. Zichen, don’t ever doubt it.” He squeezes his hand. “I like you so much, sometimes it is all I can think of.”
A warm feeling blossoms in his chest at hearing those feelings spoken aloud. “I am not always good at what I want to say,” Song Lan says, not wanting to lose the moment. “Or at saying things soon enough or clearly enough. I have upset you before and I don’t wish to again.”
“It’s alright.”
“It is not. At the inn, I explained things poorly and upset you.” He wonders now how could have even done what he did next. It seems unconscionable. “You were crying and I turned away.”
“I don’t think more words between us would have helped that night. We would have argued and I do not think either of us could bear that,” Xiao Xingchen replies. “To sleep on it was best.”
Song Lan doesn’t know how he can be forgiven so easily, yet he is grateful that has been.
“Every future I imagine has you in it.” Closing his eyes, he rests his head on the back of Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder. “No matter where or when. Even when we are old and white haired, I want to turn and see you by my side.”
“You will have me crying again,” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding as if it might already be true. “How did I not know you were such a romantic?”
“If the truth is romantic, then I am.”
Xiao Xingchen laughs softly, impossibly fond, but says nothing more.
~
Morning comes in bright and breezy, the air cool, but not cold. Good travelling weather, Song Lan thinks as he makes breakfast for them.
Wei Ying is excited to be travelling again, barely able to sit still while Xiao Xingchen does his hair for him. Something which is still somewhat hampered by the sling.
Finally they are ready to leave. Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen walk together, Turnip following them contentedly, while Wei Ying darts this way and that on the path ahead of them, swiping at falling leaves with a stick.
It is an unexpected direction that their lives have taken, certainly not one that Song Lan could have predicted when he’d agreed to Xiao Xingchen wanting to help the people of Fuling. Unexpected yes, but looking at Xiao Xingchen, seeing the happiness on his face, the fond way he looks at the child playing, he knows this is the future he wants for them.
Song Lan wakes to the morning sun falling across his face from where it filters in through the cracks in the walls and ceiling, forming patches of light hung with dust motes.
Falling asleep sitting up isn’t an unknown occurrence for him. When he’d been even younger, a child determined to form his golden core, he’d spent hours in meditation, sleeping and then meditating again, never moving his position. His dedication had impressed his teachers and because of that he is aware that there was some disappointment amongst them when he had chosen to leave the Baixue temple for the life of a rogue cultivator rather than to remain there.
All the same, sleeping sitting up isn’t exactly comfortable and he wants to stand and stretch his legs. The difficulty lies in the fact that Xiao Xingchen is still asleep against him. With his head resting on Song Lan’s thigh, his hair tumbles loose from where it had been left untied to dry the previous night.
Brushing it aside, Song Lan lets his hand linger on his forehead. He is only checking for fever, he tells himself. He had no other reason to need to touch him. Xiao Xingchen stirs slightly, nose twitching as the hair that has been brushed aside drags across it, but he doesn’t wake. Instead with a soft, sleepy sound, he leans into Song Lan’s touch.
He is still too warm, but the fever is definitely lower than it had been. There isn’t time for Song Lan to consider anything else however, as a small voice right next to him says, “Is it time to get up now?”
With all his concern focused on Xiao Xingchen, Song Lan realises that he’s failed to notice that Wei Ying is no longer asleep where he’d been the previous night. Instead he is right beside him, at some point having dragged his sleeping mat over, as well as his blanket and toy and gone back to sleep.
Now however he is awake and no doubt full of questions and wanting food.
“Yes, it is,” he replies quietly, not wanting to wake Xiao Xingchen. As much as he would like to let him remain asleep against him, Song Lan has to get up. The fire needs re-lighting, water needs to be collected, food cooked and decisions made about what to do with the day ahead. Later he will need to check the wound again, to make sure it is healing - nothing this time would be left to chance.
Carefully, so as not to disturb him too much, he moves Xiao Xingchen onto his sleeping mat. Folding up his own blanket, he lets him use it as a pillow, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.
“Isn’t Xiao-dage getting up too?” Wei Ying asks as he watches them.
“Not yet, let him sleep,” Song Lan says, realising that he will need to look after the child until Xiao Xingchen is better. Although they don’t immediately need to collect any wood for the fire it is an easy distraction to fill some of the time. “You can help me gather some more wood for the fire. Then we can eat. Do you know what to find? Small pieces to start it burning.”
Wei Ying nods and holds out his hands in an approximation of size that is needed. “I collected sticks for a-niang, and then a-die would cook.”
The moment of enthusiasm dims and Song Lan has little doubt of the reason. Wei Ying is older than he had been when he’d lost his own parents, and for now those memories of them are still fresh, undimmed with the passage of time.
Was it best to let him talk about them, even if it sometimes made him sad? Or would it be better to distract him and speak of other things, letting those bitter-sweet memories fade and become distant things with little power to hurt? They are questions to which Song Lan has no answers, not for Wei Ying, or even for his own younger self. Would it have helped if people had helped him remember his own family? Or would it have made the loss worse? He thinks of Xiao Xingchen’s distress at revealing that he had no memory of his family at all, how he’d been abandoned. No, having no memory of them wasn’t a guaranteed help either. The mind would attempt to fill in what was missing, and whether it would provide something that helped or hurt was far from certain.
“They must have been very proud of you,” he says, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. It’s what Xiao Xingchen would do, he tells himself, which means that it is likely to be the right thing. All the same it feels strange and Wei Ying looks at him like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do or say now.
After a few moments it’s awkward and Song Lan withdraws his hand, saying, “Do not go too far when we are outside. We do not know this place, and I do not want you to get lost.”
“I won’t,” Wei Ying says. “Will Xiao-dage be alright by himself?”
“Yes, we will be close by.”
Finding anything that is dry after the previous night’s rain is something of a challenge, so as soon as they have a few sticks, Song Lan suggests that perhaps Wei Ying could collect some food for Turnip instead. The donkey wouldn’t mind that the grass or plants were wet. It’s something that he happily agrees to, and Song Lan hopes that he can find enough things to keep him occupied for the rest of the day. There was a limit to how much Turnip could eat.
There is enough wood to light the fire stored from the previous night and Song Lan gets breakfast started. Although he had planned to make pancakes, as well as extra to take with them for lunch on the road, now that it is time to cook he decides against it. There is no likelihood of travelling today. Tomorrow, hopefully Xiao Xingchen will be well enough for them to continue. The green onions he bought to add to the pancakes would keep another day.
Tired from his own broken night’s sleep and his continuing worry over Xiao Xingchen’s health, he doesn’t feel much like cooking. Food is important for health however, so he chooses to make congee again. Then by the time it is done Xiao Xingchen will hopefully be awake and will feel well enough to eat with them.
He is not, but Song Lan hesitates to wake him. His sleep seems peaceful, the fever low enough not to disturb his rest. So he sets Xingchen’s share of breakfast aside to keep warm for when he wakes.
Wei Ying doesn’t appear to mind having the same meal as the previous evening, waiting eagerly for it to be cooked and pushing more small twigs into the fire to try and hurry it along. Song Lan doesn’t want to think about how many hungry days the child had been through, how he’d competed with the stray dogs in the market for scraps, like the discarded pancake they had found him with.
“Song-dage,” Wei Ying asks, once he’s almost finished his breakfast. “Did you live with Xiao-dage when you were little?”
“No, I met Xingchen last year. We had both not long left our homes to travel and help people.” It’s a fond memory, the two of them meeting on the road. It had been the spring of the previous year, the tree lined road bright with sunlight and cherry blossom, when he’d seen him. He’d seemed almost to glow in the sun, the spring breeze moving his hair and showering him with petals. It had been like meeting a god descended from the heavens.
“Oh.” He stirs the last of his congee round with a spoon for a moment. “Are you and Xiao-dage married, like a-niang and a-die?”
The question takes Song Lan by surprise, and for a moment he feels wrong footed by it, flustered by things he’s never spoken aloud to any one. “No,” he says finally, although it feels like a lie. “It is not like that between us.”
Wei Ying looks disappointed, but doesn’t say anything more as finishes his breakfast quietly.
It isn’t the end of the conversation, Song Lan finds. Because once breakfast is done, their bowls and pan washed and left to dry, Wei Ying asks, “Are you going to get married to someone? Will Xiao-dage get married too?”
Marriage isn’t something that he’s ever contemplated for himself. When the other young men at the Baixue temple were starting to talk of women and occasionally men, he had felt nothing. Or at least nothing beyond the usual disquiet that came with the thought of anyone touching him. The talk of courting and what came next hadn’t appealed to him all.
He frowns. Yet weren’t those things the same feelings that he’s been having towards Xiao Xingchen in increasing frequency the longer they have been together. Thoughts of wanting to hold him, to feel his hand in his, to listen to him talk, to see him smile. Are they the same as what they’d meant or just something similar? It’s confusing, it makes him feel not like himself, but in a way that is more wonderful than frightening.
“Are you cross?” Wei Ying asks, sounding worried that he has done something bad.
“I am not cross with you,” he replies, not wanting to scare the child. “I was thinking.”
“About who you're going to marry? Are they very pretty?” Wei Ying asks again, “Will they live with us too? Xiao-dage was really sad when he thought you might not stay, so you can’t go away.”
“There will be no one else. I will not leave him.” It is by far the easiest question that Wei Ying has asked him. “He is my friend.” It’s far more than that, but he can’t find the words. He can’t explain to a child how Xiao Xingchen feels like the other half of his own soul, how he feels at peace with him by his side, like there was something fundamental missing in his life until he’d met him.
“So you’re going to stay together forever?” he asks, sounding like he would be happy if that was true.
Forever is a very long time, yet in this moment it feels like it would be barely enough, and he replies simply, “Yes.”
It’s an answer that makes Wei Ying look more confused rather than less. “But if you like him lots and lots and want to stay together forever, isn’t that the same as getting married?”
Part of Song Lan wants to tell him that it is far more complicated than that, that when Wei Ying is older he will understand that it just is. Yet is it? With no responsibility to any sect or family to consider they were both free to follow their hearts. Yet what if, in the end, Xingchen’s heart didn’t feel the same as his? “We are both young,” he replies, not wanting to leave him waiting any longer. “There are many years ahead of us to think of such things.”
The look Wei Ying gives him seems to suggest the child thinks he is actually old, but he doesn’t say it. To Song Lan’s surprise he doesn’t ask any more questions at all, deciding instead that it is time for him to talk to Turnip instead.
It is a relief to have time to stop and gather his own thoughts for a moment, even if those thoughts now are filled with thoughts of how he wants Xiao Xingchen to remain at his side. He watches him sleep for a short time, sunlight falling across his face. He is trying to discern if he needs anything, he tells himself, and whether being woken up to eat and drink would be more beneficial than sleeping alone.
The decision of whether to wake him is removed when Xiao Xingchen stirs, sitting up slowly and awkwardly as he tries not to place any pressure on his injured arm. “Zichen, there you are.” He blinks looking around, like he is having to try hard to focus on anything. “Where…where’s A-Ying?”
“Talking to his donkey,” Song Lan replies, kneeling down beside. “Do not worry. He has had breakfast. I have looked after him, he has been no trouble.”
“Good. That’s good.” Xiao Xingchen closes his eyes, weariness dragging him back down until he is lying with his head on the folded cloak. “I really am useless today.”
“Not useless. You are unwell.” He settles the blanket back over him that had slipped loose when he’d sat up. “You should eat something before you sleep again. There is still some congee from breakfast. You will feel better if you eat.”
Xiao Xingchen considers it for a moment, then says, “I won’t.”
He sounds so weak that Song Lan feels the fear from the previous building again. “You should try. If you feel too weak, I can feed you. I do not mind.”
“Don’t.” He turns away. “Please don’t.”
Even more worried now, Song Lan moves round so that he is facing him once more. He brushes the sweat damp hair from his forehead, feeling the lingering low fever that still hasn’t broken. “Xingchen, what’s wrong?”
“I can’t eat it, I really can’t,” he replies, barely more than a whisper. “I’ll be sick if I do. The room feels like it’s spinning, and the floor is going up and down, and it won’t stop.”
“Even if you cannot eat, you must drink,” Song Lan says, trying to hide his fears behind practicality. “It does not have to be much, but it must be something. You still have a fever, so you must drink or it will become worse.”
Xiao Xingchen makes a small, unhappy noise, but nods all the same.
The next half hour is spent with Xingchen, leaning against him, too dizzy to sit up for long by himself, slowly drinking small sips of water from a cup Song Lan holds to his lips. It’s frightening to see him so weak. Even though he is very slim for his height there has never been a sense of fragility in it, just lithe energy and gracefulness that few can match. Now though there is, his sickness having drained that bright spark of life from him, leaving him limp and listless.
He listens to the wind in the trees and bamboo outside and to Wei Ying talking to Turnip about leaves. He seems to be trying to find ones that are the same colour as the donkey. He sounds happy at least, Song Lan thinks, turning his attention back to Xiao Xingchen and back to what he needs to do next.
Checking and redressing the wound is a miserable experience. Although Xingchen manages to stay conscious throughout this time, it is hardly a blessing as any contact with the injury is still very painful for him. The only comfort is that it’s done for another day and that perhaps tomorrow it will have improved.
By the time that Wei Ying comes back inside, Xiao Xingchen is asleep once more, and Song Lan has turned his attention to thinking what he can make for lunch.
Song Lan expects that he will be full of questions as he had been at breakfast, however Wei Ying doesn’t. Rather, he smiles up at him, a pile of apples in his arms. “Turnip found the tree, but I climbed it,” he says proudly, “He always knows where there’s food. He should be called greedy turnip.”
It would make sense that people who had once tended the temple would have gardens for food. For the most part, given how long it appeared to have been abandoned, nature would have reclaimed even the most carefully tended plots. Fruit trees however would persist, even seeding more from their fruit. It is a little late in the year for apples and the fruit Wei Ying has brought in with him is past its best, but it is still edible.
Song Lan’s first instinct is to tell him that he should be careful when he climbs, that he could fall. The big, bright smile however means he doesn’t. “Are they sweet apples?”
“I didn’t eat any yet,” he says. “There weren’t many left,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Not nice ones. Turnip liked the squashy ones on the ground.”
He puts them down on the floor, his arms getting tired. “We have to share them.” He looks at the small pile of apples, chooses the nicest of them and then puts it to one side.
“Is that one for you?” Song Lan asks.
“No,” he replies, sounding as if it never occurred to him that it should be his. “It’s for Xiao-dage, so he feels better.”
“That’s very kind.”
“A-Niang always said I should be.” Wei Ying’s happiness at finding the apples fades. “Song-dage, will Xiao-dage be alright?” He looks at where Xingchen is asleep once more, a slight frown on his face, discomfort seeping into his dreams. “He’s not…he’s not going to go away, is he?”
“Away? He can’t travel yet, maybe tomorrow we…” It takes a moment but the reality of what Wei Ying really means catches him, cold fear rising up. “No, A-Ying, no. He is getting better already. He isn’t going to leave us.”
Wei Ying nods, but there is something lost and older than his young years in his eyes. “He won’t mean to. A-niang and A-die didn’t mean to, but they’re gone.” His lip starts to wobble. “They’re gone and they’re never coming back.”
Death is a difficult subject, especially for someone as young as Wei Ying. Even the knowledge that his parents' spirits will live on to be reborn into new lives might not give comfort. Because within that new life they will have, their memories of their child will be gone. It is as it is meant to be, no one could live happily with the memories of so many lives in their head, but for an orphaned child who wants them as they were it feels like another form of loss. At least that was how it had felt to Song Lan himself when, as a child, it had been explained to him.
“It is not the same situation,” Song Lan says, not sure of the best way to explain it. He is uncertain whether Xiao Xingchen has told Wei Ying that they had killed the yaoguai or that it was the same creature that killed his parents that gave him his wound. “Fighting the creatures we face can be dangerous, but it is right that we try. We all live together in this world and there are many who rely on us to make it a safer place.”
He motions for Wei Ying to sit down, before sitting on the floor. “Not everyone can be a cultivator, nor can everyone be a farmer or a weaver. Yet we all need food and clothes and to be safe. So cultivators like your A-Niang and A-die, like myself and Xingchen, and the cultivators of the great and small sects alike must work together to make everywhere safe enough for those farmers and weavers so they can make the things we like to eat and wear.”
Wei Ying doesn’t look particularly comforted or reassured by this, and Song Lan wonders if he has made things worse, if he has made it sound as if the world is filled with danger at every turn and has frightened him.
“Do you know what a golden core is?” he asks, trying to distract him. “Or why is it important that we train it? ”
There is a slight nod.
“It can help us get better when we aren’t well and to heal faster if we are hurt,” he says, trying not to allow in his own worries about Xingchen’s health. Picking up one of the apples he hands it to Wei Ying. “Eat. I will tell you of the other things it can do. How it can help you fight, to help others and even to fly.”
The mention of being able to fly gets a spark of interest and Wei Ying takes a big bite of the apple and waits to hear more.
—-
For a day where he has done little apart from sit and talk, and occasionally cook, Song Lan feels impossibly weary by the time night has drawn in. He’d entertained Wei Ying the best that he could, he’d talked of what it meant to have a golden core and become a cultivator, about travelling by sword high above the ground, then he’d let him help making soup, before letting him practice his writing in the ash by the fire. Finally when it had grown late, he’d helped him get ready for bed and talked to him about his own childhood at the Baixue temple.
The only one left awake, he sits by the fire, watching the flames. He rubs his eyes, tired and gritty feeling from too long awake. There was nothing pressing that he needed to do. The sensible course of action would be to follow his usual routine and get ready to sleep. Perhaps if he meditates for a short time the feelings and fears that have been plaguing him all day will recede, become smaller and more manageable.
He has barely had time to remove his outer clothes and sit down when he hears his name.
“Zichen.” Xiao Xingchen’s voice is soft and a little fragile in the dark. “Zichen, are you awake?”
“Yes, what is wrong?” Song Lan replies, leaving his own bed and sitting down beside him.
“I don’t know.” There is an edge of fear to it. “I don’t feel right, but I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
The reason is apparent as soon as Song Lan places a hand on his forehead. The fever that had been dimmed through the day is rising again. It’s not dangerously high, but it is definitely enough to make Xiao Xingchen feel unwell again.
“I will get you some water.”
Xiao Xingchen catches his hand, a little uncoordinated as he pulls it back against his forehead. “Don’t go.”
“Does it help?”
There is a small hum of agreement.
As he had done the night before, Song Lan sits so that Xiao Xingchen can rest with his head on his lap. He strokes his hair and talks to him quietly of what he has done today and of Wei Ying. He avoids mentioning the conversation about marriage, his own feelings still too uncertain and tangled.
Despite making sure Xiao Xingchen is lying comfortably and is able to rest, his fever continues to climb, until once more he is shivering, sweat beading on his forehead. He does leave him briefly to get water, feeding him small sips of it until Xiao Xingchen can no longer stay awake.
He talks in his sleep, nonsensical fragments of things from fever dreams. Everytime Song Lan removes his hand from his head he whimpers in his sleep, distressed at the loss of contact. So he stays awake, long, dark hours slipping by as he pours energy into him trying to help him heal and strokes his hair, as it seems to be the only thing that comforts him. He’s exhausted by it, but he refuses to rest while Xiao Xingchen needs him. Midnight passes and still the fever burns on, hotter now that the cooling grey ash that is all that remains of the untended fire.
Tonight Wei Ying sleeps on untroubled. No doubt tomorrow he would have more questions, and Song Lan wonders if he should start teaching the child a little about cultivation - as a child of two cultivators he should be given the opportunity to follow the same path. Those would be easier questions to deal with than the ones about marriage or loss and death.
Worries always seem more pronounced in the dark. Images of He Zhou, the yaoguai’s last victim, come to him. How the man had lingered in fever and pain for a few days before his death. He remembers the man’s son, just a young boy, clinging to his mother, asking them if they killed monsters. Now she would have to speak to him about death. The house was so small perhaps the child had even been there to witness his father’s passing.
The image in his mind changes, now it is of Wei Ying clinging to him, small and scared and facing another death in his young life. He feels choked by it, broken in a way he never wants to feel.
“Don’t leave me,” Song Lan says softly, “I don’t know how to be without you.”
There is nothing to suggest that his words have been heard, he’s not even sure that he wants them to be. Now is not the time to burden him with his fears. Because they are just fears, unjustified ones he hopes, as he closes his eyes and tries not to think.
There is no great crisis or any moment of total despair where life seems to hang in the balance. When the fever finally breaks in the early hours of the morning, it does so slowly, dropping away until Xiao Xingchen is resting peacefully against him.
Exhausted after having little more than a handful of hours of sleep in the past two days and the realisation that the worst has passed, and that Xingchen is recovering, leaves him feeling shaky with tiredness and relief.
There are a few hours left until dawn, and spending another night sleeping sitting up isn’t something that Song Lan wishes to do. He needs to get some rest if he is to be of any use in the morning, and help Xiao Xingchen and Wei Ying through the day.
Equally though he cannot bring himself to give up the closeness of having Xingchen there in his arms. The fear of losing him remains far too real, weariness turning it into a spectre, haunting the edges of his consciousness, ready to pounce when he sleeps.
For tonight he will sleep beside him, holding him, keeping him safe. It is only for tonight, he tells himself. Tomorrow, when Xiao Xingchen is getting better, he will be able to push aside his fears. For what remains of tonight however, he needs to have him close, to know that he is alive and healing there in his arms.
It feels impossibly right holding him. He feels weak with it. Emotional, fragile in a way that he is unused to. The relief that Xiao Xingchen is now recovering, will soon be well again, is tempered with the knowledge that once he is this closeness will stop. Because under what other circumstance would they do this? Yet how can he go back to sleeping alone now he knows how it feels to hold him?
If he were more impulsive perhaps he would press a kiss to his hair or forehead, a small gesture of his affection. He looks at the curve of his lips, pink and barely parted.
What would it be like to kiss him? How soft and warm would those lips be? Would they smile as they pressed close?
The thoughts are sudden, so alien to him that he can’t quite believe that they are his. He feels slightly panicked by it, the heat of embarrassment crawling over his skin like insects. He swallows hard, trying to calm himself, but he can feel his heart rate pick up.
What was Xingchen to him? A friend certainly. To say that he is his best friend is also true. In the few months that they have known each other they have grown so close that Song Lan cannot and does not want to imagine a life without him. To call him his Zhiji isn’t an exaggeration either. Xiao Xingchen knows him as well as he knows himself, he is his soulmate, he feels whole when he is with him, complete. There is no expectation of romance or anything more physical, in seeing him as such. Nor however does it preclude it.
Perhaps, Song Lan thinks, he needs to have grown close to Xiao Xingchen to have such feelings. That he cannot feel those kinds of desires with anyone unless he feels completely comfortable with them.
Which only leaves what he is going to do about it.
Xiao Xingchen sighs softly in his sleep and presses even more closely against him. There is no distress now, just a need for continuing closeness and reassurance.
There is only one answer tonight, only one course of action: Do nothing. Because even if tonight is the only time Xiao Xingchen lets him hold him like this, he cannot steal a kiss from him, cannot take what would likely be both their first kiss. No, if it is to happen then Xiao Xingchen has to be awake, has to want it too. He is far too precious for him to consider doing anything else.
For tonight he can hold him, he can keep him safe and warm, he can make sure he is comfortable and cared for. Tomorrow and in the days to come perhaps he will try to find a way to speak of it. He doesn’t know how yet, the words all seem too difficult, the feelings too tangled up in fear of loss and in utter relief. He’d made a mess of speaking to him about Wei Ying, how much more of a mess and hurt feeling would come from him blundering through an incoherent confession of how much he wants to kiss him?
He watches him as he falls asleep. He will remember every moment of it and carry it with him, even if it never happens again, he will know that he can do this.
—--
Morning comes and Xiao Xingchen looks better, if still very tired. While Wei Ying seems to have a boundless amount of energy, and on seeing Xingchen awake and able to sit with them for breakfast, his bright smile is back.
Somehow Song Lan makes it through the day without falling asleep, but weariness drags at him. All the same he cooks for them, fetches water and tends to the fire and occupies Wei Ying’s time with writing when Xiao Xingchen nods off after lunch and sleeps until it’s almost time for their evening meal. He makes the scallion pancakes he’d not made the day before and then helps Xiao Xingchen to get dressed. He helps him use a square of cloth as a sling too, to stop any additional strain being put on the healing wound by moving around.
He sees Xiao Xingchen watching him sometimes, seemingly on the verge of saying something, then either being interrupted by Wei Ying or deciding against it himself.
Finally night falls once more, and they are the only ones left awake, Wei Ying having tired himself out with a day of running and climbing, talking and playing.
They hadn’t planned to be on the road for as long as they have, so while they still have supplies, buying more in the next few days will be needed if they are not to end up eating plain rice with whatever edible plants Song Lan can gather. In the slightly longer term they will need to earn some money.
They should really continue on their way to Jinsha in the morning, but he doesn’t want to push Xiao Xingchen if he isn’t ready. Perhaps Xingchen could ride Turnip for some of the time. Then at Jinsha he could take care of Wei Ying while Song Lan dealt with the haunting by himself. It could work. Yet equally it could all go horribly wrong. What if…
“Zichen, I can see you worrying from here,” Xiao Xingchen says, “I’m fine now, so please stop.”
Fine is something of an overstatement statement. As fine, Song Lan thinks, wouldn’t involve Xiao Xingchen wearing a sling. Fine also didn’t include the fact that his arm was still so sore that changing the bandage had brought tears to his eyes and left him trembling for half an hour afterwards. It was healing, but Song Lan knew he wouldn’t be fully reassured about it until all that was left was a faint, pain-free line on his skin.
When he hasn’t answered, Xiao Xingchen gets up and goes over to him, sitting down close enough to touch. “Are you alright? You’ve been quiet all day.”
“Am I not usually?” he replies, confused. Did Xiao Xingchen find him loud? If he did he would be the only one who ever had.
“It’s a different quiet. I don’t know how to explain it.” He moves closer still, reaching out to take Song Lan’s hand. He pauses for a moment before he does, giving him a chance to move away if he doesn’t want it. When he doesn’t he closes his hand over his, fingers curling under it, holding on. “You’ve been so good, looking after me and A-Ying. I know you don’t like it, things like this, that it must have been so hard on you, but I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Warmth spreads out from where his hand is being held, wonderful and terrifying in equal measure.
“I have already told you, if it is you I do not mind. Whatever you need, I will do it gladly.”
“What about you?” Xiao Xingchen says, a fingertip gently stroking the side of Song Lan’s hand. “Is there anything that you need? You’ve been so good to me.”
You could ask him to kiss you, Song Lan thinks and then discounts it. He doesn’t want it to end up feeling like a debt between them. Yet what can he say? He has to say something.
Abruptly Xiao Xingchen lets go of his hand and his heart sinks. He’s ruined the moment again by not having the words to explain.
Yet it isn’t annoyance or irritation that is in Xiao Xingchen’s eyes as he looks at him, it’s concern that is growing by the moment. “Please don’t cry, Zichen. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to do something nice for you.”
“I’m not.”
Leaning in, Xiao Xingchen cups his cheek in his hand, thumb gliding across it, sweeping away the wetness it finds there. “You are.”
Reaching up, Song Lan wipes his other cheek. He wants to apologise for it. He can’t remember the last time he cried. Why now? Although perhaps why not sooner would have been a better question. The truth of the matter is that he, like Xiao Xingchen, is only nineteen and the past few days have been a lot. The fear that he could have lost Xingchen, lost the only person who seems to truly understand him, the only person who he truly feels comfortable with, feels like a stone in his chest. Seeing Wei Ying’s sadness at his lost parents and remembering his own childhood, how he has almost no memories left of his family, hadn’t been easy either.
A stray tear falls as far as his mouth and Xiao Xingchen brushes it gently away. Song Lan closes his eyes with a sigh, the soft sweep of his tear-damp finger across his lips bringing thoughts of kissing him to the fore once more.
“Was that too much?”
“It is not. It is…” He stops. His heart is beating too fast, nervous, excited. He should tell Xiao Xingchen how he has come to feel about him. He should do it now before he talks himself out of it, telling himself there will be a better time. He tries to take a steadying breath, but he feels almost lightheaded with what he is about to do. “Last night,” he says, the words falling out in a rush. “I really wanted to kiss you.”
“Oh.” Xiao Xingchen smiles, a little shy at first, then brighter. Surprised, but happy as he asks, “Then why didn’t you?”
“You were sleeping. It wouldn’t have been right.”
“I’m awake now,” Xiao Xingchen says, his gaze dropping from Song Lan’s eyes to his lips. “You don’t have to, not if you’ve changed your mind.”
Words trip him up too often, they come out wrong or at least aren’t interrupted in the way he means them. Actions however, those he can be certain of, so with the firelight dancing in Xiao Xingchen’s eyes, Song Lan leans in and kisses him.
It’s warm and a little awkward, because neither of them particularly know what they are doing beyond that. Xiao Xingchen however seems very enthusiastic about getting better at it. Although limited a little by having his arm in a sling, his other is curls around Song Lan’s shoulders, fingers dipping just below the neckline of the clothes, stroking skin that is unused to touch. It makes him shiver in a way that feels good.
Xiao Xingchen moves closer. No longer sitting next to him, he sits on Song Lan lap facing him.
It’s hard to know what he’s supposed to do with his own hands. Song Lan keeps one tangled in his hair, while the other rests on his back, fingers splayed wide. He can feel the warm play of muscles in Xiao Xingchen’s back through the fabric. One day it will be bare skin, he thinks caught up in the moment, suddenly very aware that he wants to have that with him, that and more. Not tonight though, maybe not even soon, but eventually. He feels breathless with it and he is almost relieved when Xingchen breaks the kiss.
It’s only a momentary pause, as he doesn’t pull away. Instead Xiao Xingchen kisses along his jaw, then down his neck, before finally at the junction of neck and shoulder.
“You’re shaking,” Xiao Xingchen says, stroking his face again. “It wasn’t too much, was it?”
“No,” he replies. Although perhaps the answer should have been yes. Yet it hadn’t been too much in a bad way. He touches the skin, warm and damp where Xingchen’s mouth had been. “It was good.”
“Can we sleep together tonight?” Xiao Xingchen asks. Still straddling his lap, head resting against his shoulder.
“Tonight?” Nerves twist obscenely in the pit Song Lan’s stomach. A small part of it is excitement, but mostly it’s uncertainty. “Here?” He looks over at where Wei Ying is asleep. They had been quiet enough kissing, but if Xingchen did want more…. He swallows hard, he doesn’t want to disappoint him, but things are moving far too fast for him and he just can’t. “We should wait. When we next get to an inn, once your arm is better. Where it’s private and…”
Lifting his head, Xiao Xingchen looks at him, before he starts to go red. Faint pink flush on his neck at first, climbs up to his cheeks, until he is blushing so much Song Lan can feel the heat of it.
“To sleep,” he manages, before he hides his face against Song Lan’s neck. “I only meant we should go to sleep.”
“That’s good, that’s…” he stops. He feels almost sick with embarrassment. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I think I do. Mean I will, if you want to, that is, but...”
“Not yet. That’s alright, I don’t think I can stay awake much longer,” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding slightly muffled from where his face is still against Song Lan’s neck. He yawns, breath warm against bare skin. “I’ve done nothing today and I’m half asleep.”
“Then we will sleep.”
Although the last two nights have been spent with Xiao Xingchen sleeping against him, this more deliberate act still feels special, new. Placing sleeping mats down beside each other, helping each other take off outer clothing and finally lying down together.
“We spoke once about having a sect of our own one day,” Xiao Xingchen says, once he is settled comfortably in Song Lan’s arms. “Do you remember?”
“Yes.” They had dealt with the unhappy spirit of a young man who had wanted nothing more than to join a sect and become a cultivator, but had failed and had died in an accident trying to prove his use to them. It had been a sad situation, and one that could have been avoided if the sect that the youth had wanted to join had allowed guest disciples to train with them.
They’d stayed awake long past the hour they would normally sleep that night, talking about ideas, about how a sect based on shared ideals, that admitted people based on their willingness to learn rather than their background was something that they wanted to see in the world. It wasn’t only that conversation, they have mentioned it again in passing to each other a few times since. It was a dream for the future. They barely made enough to support themselves as yet, as with less than two years experience, running a whole sect seemed like an impossible task.
“You said that we would need to start small.”
“I did.” Even once they were more established they would not have the resources that other long established sects had, where income from land and property could be used to fund things. Anyone joining them would have a life on the road for much of the time.
He moves in Song Lan’s arms, so that he can see Wei Ying. Curled into his blanket, the child’s dark hair, which is all that is visible, has once again defied any attempts at making it neat and tidy. “He is very small.”
“You want us to train him as a disciple?” Song Lan can’t quite keep the surprise from his voice.
There is a pause and then he says, “You don’t think we should?”
“He is like family to you,” Song Lan replies. It almost feels like a dream to be laying with Xingchen in his arms, discussing raising a child with him. It is not a life he has contemplated at all. “He does not have to be a disciple to stay. That you want him here is enough.”
“Family.” There is something breathy, less than steady in Xiao Xingchen’s voice, as he takes Song Lan’s hand and holds it to his chest, next to his heart. “I didn’t think…” He trails off, the thought of whatever he was going to say too much.
That I wanted one? That I could have one? That you would never agree to it? Song Lan has no way of knowing what Xiao Xingchen was going to say. All seem equally as likely to him, and all make him equally sad. “Whatever you want, if I can do it, I will,” he says. “I want to make you happy.”
“You are. You do. Zichen, don’t ever doubt it.” He squeezes his hand. “I like you so much, sometimes it is all I can think of.”
A warm feeling blossoms in his chest at hearing those feelings spoken aloud. “I am not always good at what I want to say,” Song Lan says, not wanting to lose the moment. “Or at saying things soon enough or clearly enough. I have upset you before and I don’t wish to again.”
“It’s alright.”
“It is not. At the inn, I explained things poorly and upset you.” He wonders now how could have even done what he did next. It seems unconscionable. “You were crying and I turned away.”
“I don’t think more words between us would have helped that night. We would have argued and I do not think either of us could bear that,” Xiao Xingchen replies. “To sleep on it was best.”
Song Lan doesn’t know how he can be forgiven so easily, yet he is grateful that has been.
“Every future I imagine has you in it.” Closing his eyes, he rests his head on the back of Xiao Xingchen’s shoulder. “No matter where or when. Even when we are old and white haired, I want to turn and see you by my side.”
“You will have me crying again,” Xiao Xingchen says, sounding as if it might already be true. “How did I not know you were such a romantic?”
“If the truth is romantic, then I am.”
Xiao Xingchen laughs softly, impossibly fond, but says nothing more.
~
Morning comes in bright and breezy, the air cool, but not cold. Good travelling weather, Song Lan thinks as he makes breakfast for them.
Wei Ying is excited to be travelling again, barely able to sit still while Xiao Xingchen does his hair for him. Something which is still somewhat hampered by the sling.
Finally they are ready to leave. Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen walk together, Turnip following them contentedly, while Wei Ying darts this way and that on the path ahead of them, swiping at falling leaves with a stick.
It is an unexpected direction that their lives have taken, certainly not one that Song Lan could have predicted when he’d agreed to Xiao Xingchen wanting to help the people of Fuling. Unexpected yes, but looking at Xiao Xingchen, seeing the happiness on his face, the fond way he looks at the child playing, he knows this is the future he wants for them.