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They step aside the moment Zhou Zishu arrives.
Sun Aiguo bows his head, listening as the steps of their leader echo on the marble floor. He dares to raise his eyes, finding their leader’s imposing form immediately. The imposing form of his flawless posture, his cold eyes devoid of any emotion, and his ethereal presence. But today there is something – someone else:
Wen Kexing.
Sun Aiguo bites down on his cheek to conceal his reaction to seeing Wen Kexing hang limply from the leader’s arms, head leaning against the leader’s shoulder and a faint trace of blood on his pale lips. Wen Kexing’s brow is creased in a semblance of pain, at odds with the usual careless grins and hushed rumors, or even the glares that could burn an entire city to the ground.
No one is quite sure what the leader wants from the mysterious Wen Kexing. He just appeared one day, flirty smiles and teasing words, following the leader around but never being pushed away. No one quite knows what Zhou Zishu sees the man as; a prisoner? A guest? Something else entirely? Aiguo does not even want to begin guessing.
All they know, all they have seen, is that their leader would – and has – killed for this man. To protect him or to trap him, no one knows. And no one dares to say a word, no matter how little they understand, no matter how many frown upon their leader’s strange taste.
Sun Aiguo is surprised to hear a pained gasp escape Wen Kexing’s throat. He remembers the hundred lashes Wen Kexing has endured with nothing more than stoic silence and the occasional victorious grin. Yet now, the man turns to hide his face in Zhou Zishu’s shoulder, as if this pain – whatever it is – is worse than raw, bruised, and bleeding lashes going from his shoulder blades down to his waist. However, his shock at this does not compare to the way he freezes when he catches their leader shushing his charge almost soothingly, seeming to tighten his careful hold on Wen Kexing.
Sun Aiguo steps to attention when the leader stops, letting his gaze wander over the small gathering of soldiers who do not dare meet his eyes. Sun Aiguo flinches when the leader’s icy stare lands on him.
“Come with me,” he orders, voice flat, contrasting with the softness he is willing to show Wen Kexing. Sun Aiguo hurries to nod alongside another comrade, and they follow dutifully behind their leader.
They arrive in the leader’s rooms, a place so sacred no one has ever dared to enter. Sun Aiguo and his companion still at the threshold, unsure on how to proceed in this unprecedented situation.
“Follow me,” the leader says. Wordlessly, they obey.
Sun Aiguo does not dare look around too much, but from his cursory glances, he gathers there isn’t much to see either way. The walls are scarcely decorated, an overfilled desk stands ignored in the corner, and the bed towards which the leader is heading, is unmade.
The leader is gentle as he lies Wen Kexing down, carefully smoothing a strand of hair out of Wen Kexing’s face. He drapes the blanket over Wen Kexing, and then blocks their view of the man – the prisoner? the guest? – with his back.
“…A-Xu…” Wen Kexing mumbles, voice breaking on an unknown pain that makes his impossible composure crumble.
Sun Aiguo blinks, exchanging a look of bewilderment with his comrade over the name. They wonder who Wen Kexing might be calling out to, who he wishes to see while entrapped in agony, but the answer is something Sun Aiguo would have never imagined.
“Right here, Lao Wen,” the leader soothes. “Right here.”
Sun Aiguo stands still, not trusting his ears. He knows his leader, the merciless killer, the impeccable assassin, the one no one dares to question or to betray. He knows the man whose eyes freeze the depths of hell, whose voice alone lets shivers run down his spine.
But who is this, who leans over the vulnerable form of another person, who soothes someone else and responds to such a term of endearment?
The leader turns to them, still hiding – shielding? – most of Wen Kexing from view.
“Bring some water,” the leader addresses Sun Aiguo’s comrade. His eyes turn on Sun Aiguo. “And you fetch some towels and bring me the herbs gathered this morning. Hurry.”
They salute and leave the room, letting Sun Aiguo breathe for the first time.
What did he just witness?
He comes back with the requested items only a short while later, taking care to not drop anything, lest he upset the leader. The unpredictability of Zhou Zishu’s actions makes every task feel like walking on eggshells. Sun Aiguo does not understand the actions he has seen from the leader. He just cannot find a reason, an explanation, for this strange behavior.
Stepping inside the room, Sun Aiguo bows and then lays the requested items on a table next to the bed. The leader doesn’t even spare him a glance.
The leader turns away from Wen Kexing to take one of the towels. He soaks it in water, then wrings out the cloth meticulously. Wen Kexing is unbearably pale, looks more like a ghost than a man. A grimace of pain mars his features, and his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, as if he can simply drown out the world to escape his suffering.
Zhou Zishu turns back to Wen Kexing and with a touch that seems feather-light, lays the cloth over Wen Kexing’s eyes, again smoothing strands of sweat-soaked hair out of Wen Kexing’s face.
“…A-Xu?”
“Sleep, Lao Wen,” the leader says, softly but firmly. “You need it.”
“I can’t,” Wen Kexing murmurs, so low Sun Aiguo has trouble making out the words. There is no teasing undertone to Wen Kexing’s statement, no outrageous suggestion that many soldiers think he should be punished for. This time, there is none of that – only pain. “It hurts too much.”
The leader runs his fingers through Wen Kexing’s hair, eliciting a small sound of contentment from Wen Kexing.
“You have to try.”
For a long moment, Wen Kexing doesn’t answer. Sun Aiguo finds himself thinking the man has fallen asleep despite his previous words and cannot find a reason to blame him. If the pain is severe enough to reduce someone as stubborn as Wen Kexing to this, surely it has to be enough to allow him the sweet release of unconsciousness.
“Will you stay?”
Sun Aiguo holds his breath at this question that sounds so sincere, but certainly cannot be given an equally sincere answer. Surely not, when the man Wen Kexing is asking this of is a ruthless assassin, a deadly sharp sword that is wielded by someone with far more power than any of them can ever imagine. Surely…
Zhou Zishu’s hand finds Wen Kexing’s and their fingers curl together intimately and without hesitation. The leader squeezes the hand tightly, unwaveringly.
“Forever,” he vows.
Sun Aiguo watches as a soft but pained smile graces Wen Kexing’s features, and how then Zhou Zishu leans down and presses a tender kiss against Wen Kexing’s forehead.
In that moment, the two of them are lost in their own world, in their own intimacy which Sun Aiguo has never imagined possible. He has never imagined his leader to fall in love, but the proof is undeniable as the uncharacteristically sweet scene plays out in front of him.
Sun Aiguo takes a few steps backward, bowing despite knowing his presence is not being registered, and then steps over the threshold to close the door with a quiet clunk.