Work Text:
Jiaoqiu discharges himself from the hospital the moment his condition reaches the bare minimum allowed for it.
Moze was waiting for it. He sends a message to Feixiao, and from his position in a tree by the hospital entrance he watches a healer help Jiaoqiu outside, walk next to him and gently point out which direction the road is. Jiaoqiu seems to have refused a cane. He’s making things harder for himself. Deliberately? Probably not. Just pride, maybe.
Jiaoqiu seems to be walking carefully, at least. His ears twitch periodically. The plaza in front of him is largely empty, so Moze doesn’t intervene. He just watches. After a small amount of time, he drops down from the tree and follows.
By some small miracle, Jiaoqiu doesn’t run into anything on his way to the waterfront. A handful of people step aside for him, and the path is largely bare of any other obstacles. Moze does step in to discreetly remove a pebble he was walking towards. Jiaoqiu stays silent the whole time.
After the conversation at the waterfront, after Jiaoqiu tells Feixiao that he is content and she need not worry, after Moze reveals himself and finds out Jiaoqiu truly hadn’t known he was there, a silence falls upon the space. Feixiao is so rarely silent. Perhaps she simply doesn’t know what to say. Different from Moze, who is silent because he has nothing to say. Not in most circumstances, and not here, either.
So it is Jiaoqiu who breaks the silence.
“When we return to the Yaoqing, I’ll take up my duties as usual. This may be a setback, but it will not affect my work. You have my word on that.”
Feixiao snorts. “‘A setback.’ I may not be a doctor, but you’re clearly not listening to them anyway, so I hope you’ll still listen to me. When we return to the Yaoqing, you’re going on leave.”
Jiaoqiu’s posture stills. “For how long, may I ask?”
“Until I decide you’re ready to return to duty.”
“…of course, general,” Jiaoqiu says, very softly.
Feixiao turns to Moze. “Moze, make sure he doesn’t walk into traffic.”
Moze nods.
“Traffic is not remotely a concern,” Jiaoqiu says. “My sense of hearing is undamaged. Vehicles tend to be quite loud.”
“Make sure he doesn’t cut his fingers off trying to cook something, then.”
Moze nods.
Jiaoqiu gives a soft sigh. “Very well.”
The three of them stay at the waterfront for a while longer.
---
A tiny fragment of tension lifts from Moze’s shoulders as they step off the ship and back in the harbor of the Yaoqing. The air feels different here, somehow. The Luofu had familiar architecture, familiar culture, but was a foreign place, somewhere Moze didn’t know even a single corner. The Yaoqing is a well-tread hunting ground. Some parts of it he can navigate in the dark. He supposes Jiaoqiu will have to pick up that particular skill.
Feixiao has a string of meetings awaiting her, part and parcel of being a general, much less a general who’s just been caught up in an interplanetary near-disaster; Jiaoqiu tries to follow her, but she forbids it. He looks tired, she says. He should rest.
He does look tired. He looks more tired after she dismisses him.
Moze follows him back to his house in silence.
Jiaoqiu’s house is smaller than you’d expect for a general’s retainer, located in a quiet urban area mostly populated by government officials. He’s always claimed he doesn’t need much besides a kitchen, a garden, and a place to reflect, and he has all of those; the kitchen is easily the largest room in the house, stocked with spices and dried goods to rival any restaurant, cabinets and drawers full of utensils and appliances; and the garden smaller but just as extensive, vibrant greenery bursting with bayberries, bitter melon, scallions; and a small, still pond, scattered with lotus flowers and rimmed with smooth, pale stones. It seems to satisfy in those respects.
Jiaoqiu turns to close the door after he enters, and only a quick step saves Moze from bumping into him, a tiny rush of air that leaves Jiaoqiu to pause and say, “Ah. Hello, Moze.”
“I was told to watch you.”
“Indeed you were. Well. Would you like some lunch?”
“You should rest.”
Jiaoqiu’s smile is strained. “Moze. Please.”
Moze protests no further.
Jiaoqiu moves through the house a little less slowly than he did the way here, familiar spaces and distances easier to navigate. But his steps are still careful, and he nearly trips over the threshold of a door before Moze reminds him it’s there.
When he arrives at the kitchen, he pauses and says, “Moze. Could you collect and wash some scallions from the garden? I haven’t gone shopping yet, so there’s few perishables remaining in the fridge, but those should have finished growing by now.”
Moze nods, before remembering that Jiaoqiu can’t see it. Facial expressions and body language can no longer be interpreted. Moze will have to speak aloud more. The thought is mildly frustrating. “Yes.” He proceeds to his assigned task.
In the process of gathering, a small amount of dirt gets on his fingers. Fortunate that he’ll be using the sink anyway.
When he returns, Jiaoqiu is washing rice in a sieve. Accommodation is briefly made for both of them to use the sink in turn. Moze continues his task, keeping an eye on Jiaoqiu as he does. Jiaoqiu seems to have little trouble with the organization of the kitchen; the paths are short and uniform, after all, and nothing is potentially dangerous to touch. Except the knives, but those are in a block, and Jiaoqiu doesn’t seem to have touched them yet.
The rice cooker isn’t far from the sink. Jiaoqiu finishes preparing the rice and turns it on, the display changing to COOK. He dries the sieve with a small towel and removes a container of flour from a cabinet, measuring out a portion and sifting it over a large mixing bowl. That accomplished, he reaches carefully into the spice cabinet, fingers lightly dragging across the glass jars until they land on the smaller, differently-shaped salt shaker. He removes it, then removes the cap and pours a small quantity of salt into the mixing bowl. Moze can’t tell if it’s the right amount. But Jiaoqiu probably knows by practice how many seconds are needed to pour whatever amount he’s looking for.
Moze takes a knife from the block. It gleams in shining steel, the edge fine and sharp.
Jiaoqiu’s ears twitch at the metal sound. “I can chop the scallions myself, Moze. There’s no need for you to do it.”
“The doctor’s report said you shouldn’t handle sharp objects.”
“I’ve been cooking for over a century, I know what I’m doing. Put the knife down.”
Moze puts the knife down.
Jiaoqiu drizzles hot water into the flour, mixing it briskly, then cold water, and kneads it together for several minutes, until the dough forms into a firm ball. He washes his hands and covers the bowl with a towel, and turns to the cutting board.
The scallions sit on the smooth wood, green and speckled with waterdrops. Jiaoqiu carefully moves his hand around the edge of the board until he finds where Moze has left the knife, and he lifts it up.
One hand holds down the scallions. His fingers are very close to the knife. Moze takes a step closer.
The movements of the knife are quick and precise, his fingers retreating bare inches from the sharp chop of its blade. Scallions fall into neat little pieces, long shoots transforming into a loose pile of green.
Jiaoqiu hisses. “Ah--”
Moze sees the error half a second before it happens, too late to warn him. The knife sinks into Jiaoqiu’s finger, blood welling up on the opened flesh and trickling onto the metal.
Moze steps closer. Jiaoqiu shakes his head. “I can clean this myself,” he says firmly, and takes the few steps to the sink.
Cold running water cleans it out and slows the bleeding. Jiaoqiu rummages in a drawer, pulls out a box of adhesive bandages, then pauses. “How deep is it?” he asks.
Moze moves closer for a look. “A quarter-inch.” The cut is perfectly clean and even. Jiaoqiu’s knives are very sharp.
Jiaoqiu very lightly rubs his thumb along the cut and sighs. “And an inch or so long. Gauze will be better than an adhesive.” He rummages in the drawer again, puts back the first box, takes out a second box. Opens it, and removes a roll of white gauze. His head turns, and then he pauses. His mouth purses in a way that looks like he’s weighing something.
“Do you know where the scissors are?” he asks.
Moze nods on automatic. He’s cleaned the house often enough that he knows where most things are. “In your office.”
“Right. If you could go get them, please.”
Moze gets them.
Upon his return, he stops before Jiaoqiu and holds them out, handle-first. “Here.” It takes a few seconds of Jiaoqiu moving his hand in the direction of Moze’s voice before he lands on the scissors and takes them.
“Maybe I should use those,” Moze says.
“I can handle scissors,” Jiaoqiu snaps.
Like you could handle the knife, Moze doesn’t say.
But Jiaoqiu does manage to wrap his finger and cut the gauze without incident. Then he says, quietly, “Perhaps I should delegate cutting the remainder of the scallions to you.”
Moze takes it as a command, and follows it.
Jiaoqiu moves to the dining room. “The dough needs twenty minutes to rest,” he calls out. “You don’t have to watch me for that. I’m just going to sit down for a bit.”
Moze doesn’t have anything else to do anyway. He sits down too.
Moze’s fine with not talking. Feixiao usually fills the space if she’s there, but she and Jiaoqiu have always been good at not pressing Moze too much to participate. Feixiao isn’t here, though, so it’s just the two of them, and maybe Jiaoqiu isn’t really in a talking mood anyway. They sit in silence.
Eventually Jiaoqiu gets back up and returns to the kitchen. Moze follows.
The rest of the cooking process doesn’t involve any knives. By the time it’s done, Jiaoqiu has a stack of uncooked pancakes wrapped in plastic, and a pan of oil is heating on the stove. Jiaoqiu is at least moving carefully around the pan.
A pancake sizzles as it touches the oil. The pleasant scent of frying food starts to waft in the air. Moze continues to watch.
After a small amount of time, Jiaoqiu says, “Does this side look ready to you?”
Moze looks. It’s a crispy golden brown, some patches darker but none burned. “Yes.”
“Good.” Jiaoqiu flips it with a pair of chopsticks. “The timing and smell seemed right, but I wanted to be sure before serving to a guest.”
Moze doesn’t know if he counts as a guest. He continues to watch.
A plate gradually acquires a stack of pancakes. The rice cooker announces its work is finished with a small beep. Jiaoqiu mixes the congee with a paddle and scoops it into two bowls, and removes a large jar of dried pork floss from a cabinet and a smaller jar of pickled vegetables from the refrigerator, opening and sniffing it to confirm the contents. More bowls. Moze takes them out to the dining table upon direction.
After a moment, Jiaoqiu says, “Perhaps it would be better if you were the one to slice the pancakes.” His voice is perfectly even.
Moze follows the order. Crispy pan-fried dough parts easily under the knife. It all goes on a plate and out with the rest.
An electric kettle readies hot water. Moze washes his hands, sits down, and waits.
Jiaoqiu follows. “My apologies for the simple fare,” he says as he sits. “The lack of fresh ingredients makes for limited options.”
It meets nutritional requirements. Moze doesn’t mind.
They eat in silence.
The scallion pancakes are delicious, the pickled vegetables bursting with sourness, the pork floss soft and savory, the congee warming and pleasantly textured. Moze still eats Jiaoqiu’s regular cooking, but it isn’t bad to have something that isn’t eye-wateringly spicy. At least he’s following the doctor’s orders in this regard.
When the meal is done, Jiaoqiu says, “Are you really going to watch me all day?”
“The general told me to.”
“I won’t be doing anything onerous. I’m expecting a delivery soon, and once it arrives I’ll spend the rest of the day in my office studying. I won’t even need the scissors, if you’re worried about those.”
Moze isn’t that worried about the scissors. “What are you doing for dinner?”
Jiaoqiu sighs. “Nothing involving a knife, I assure you.”
“Fine. I’ll return to Feixiao.”
Jiaoqiu’s posture relaxes. “Good. Though I wouldn’t mind a hand with the washing-up.”
Moze ends up doing all of it. He would have anyway, but the idea of even a small amount of oil remaining on the pan because it wasn’t noticed makes his hands itch.
Afterwards, they say their goodbyes. Moze leaves through the front door.
He returns through a window.
As promised, Jiaoqiu does, in fact, remain in his office. The package arrives, and turns out to be a set of books and implements for learning the raised language of the blind, as well as a small machine that prints them onto thick paper. Jiaoqiu stays studying it until evening, and then returns to the kitchen for dinner, a savory congee with similar jarred preserved ingredients. Moze wonders if Jiaoqiu intends to go shopping tomorrow, and how he’ll read the labels if he does.
After that, Jiaoqiu goes to the bathroom and starts to draw a bath. He stops the water before it reaches very high, however, and for a moment Moze is curious before the answer occurs to him. Then he removes a small container from a cabinet and shakes a quantity of greenish powder into his hand, pouring it into the hot water and swirling it around. The water turns faintly green. An herbal mixture of some kind, perhaps.
Jiaoqiu starts to undress in the bedroom. Nothing Moze hasn’t seen before. Though there are differences now--but those, too, Moze has seen before, to an extent. When they were fresh, at least.
The shirt slips off Jiaoqiu’s slim shoulders. The bandages peeked slightly over his collar before, but now their full extent is on display, covering nearly his entire torso and a bit down his upper thighs. He peels them off carefully, leaving them discarded on a chair.
The upper half of his body is covered in hideous wounds. Great gouges in his flesh, and a set of massive bite marks stretching across his left shoulder and the side of his throat. Not bleeding, of course. The tissue regrowth treatment has already been started. But with wounds as deep as these, that takes time, and debriding them to remove the necrosis only carved more flesh from his body, leaving the gashes too wide to be stitched. Without the advanced treatment of the Xianzhou, Jiaoqiu would spend the rest of his life covered in massive scars.
To be more accurate, without the advanced treatment of the Xianzhou, Jiaoqiu would not be alive at all.
It was a cold moment, finding him in that corner of the ship. There was little blood, and for the briefest second Moze thought that was a positive sign, before he remembered the borisin’s traditions. Then there was only cold, gripping fear, ice settling into his bones, relieved only slightly by being able to hear the faintest breath. And then the long run to a starskiff, and the long flight to the Alchemy Commission, and the long hours waiting outside.
Death on the battlefield was always a possibility. Death by such brutality was not unheard of. But for what felt like an endless span of time Moze faced the possibility that Jiaoqiu would die because of Moze’s own failure to rescue him, which left a sickening hollowness in his stomach.
He clung to that faint breath. The body in his arms was not cold yet. But it was not very warm, either, and the pulse so faint Moze could barely tell it was even there.
Now everything is well, of course. Jiaoqiu is recovering, and though he will never see again he is still of steady mind and able hands, and he will live for as much time as any of them are allotted, even if he was not young to begin with. But for a while, at least, the terrible scars remain, and Jiaoqiu’s body remains a tapestry of violence.
His legs are largely unmarred, for whatever reason. His upper arms retained some damage, but not as extensive.
The deepest claw marks are on his hips, piercing nearly into bone. Less slashes, and more holes. As if the injuries did not come from a swipe, but from a firm grip.
Jiaoqiu isn’t talking about it, and Moze doesn’t know how to talk about it, so the topic remains unspoken. But Moze does know about it. And Jiaoqiu presumably knows that Moze knows.
Hoolay is dead. All the borisin that came with him are either also dead or in the Shackling Prison of the Luofu. There is no revenge to be had, no justice to enact. Violence will neither change the past nor improve the present. But violence is what most of Moze is, so what does that say for him? The anger that roiled when he first read the medical report could do nothing, in the end, and neither could he.
Jiaoqiu’s finished undressing. He returns to the bathroom.
He removes a small towel from the towel rack, and gingerly sits down in the tub. The water is just shallow enough that it doesn’t touch the scars on his hips. Bad idea to get wounds wet. He soaks the towel in the water, and then, carefully, runs it across a patch of unscarred skin on his chest.
Or tries to. The towel slides a little into one of the gouges. He hisses slightly and pulls it back, then tries again a little higher up. A similar problem occurs. The wounds are simply too numerous, and too large, and it would not be so difficult if he could see them--but of course he cannot.
The bathroom is silent. Jiaoqiu pauses in his attempt.
“Moze?” he asks.
No reason not to answer. “Yes?”
Jiaoqiu sighs. “Really. I told you to leave.”
“I have no other duties today.” Feixiao made that clear.
“Go home and clean your house, then. I’m sure it’s gotten dusty.”
“I’ll do that when my work is done.” Though being reminded of it puts an itch under his skin. They’ve been gone for over two weeks; undoubtedly his living quarters need a deep clean as soon as possible. But that’s for later.
Jiaoqiu gives a soft laugh. “Will wonders never cease. You hardly ever push off an opportunity to clean.”
“My work is always the highest priority.”
“Well, there’s no work for you here now. I’m hardly going to drown in this amount of water. Go home, Moze.”
Moze eyes the towel, draped over the side of the tub. “I could help.”
“Help with what, exactly?”
“Cleaning.”
Jiaoqiu raises an eyebrow. “I don’t need assistance bathing, Moze.”
“It looks like you do.”
Silence descends.
“I suppose a degree of help would not go amiss,” Jiaoqiu says. “At the very least it will be especially difficult to wash my back.”
Moze pockets his gloves and rolls up his sleeves, and washes his hands in the sink. It’s been several hours since he last did so; some of the itch fades as he scrubs.
Jiaoqiu trails his fingers in the shallow water. “One of the recommended treatments is herbal baths,” he says. “But submersing wounds in water is a path to infection. Really, what were they thinking.”
Moze kneels down by the tub. He doesn’t know what they were thinking. “Lean back a little.”
Jiaoqiu leans back, gingerly, resting his shoulders on one end of the tub. “Have you done this before?”
“Sometimes I need to wash off blood around a wound. It’s similar.”
Jiaoqiu makes an assenting sound. Moze gets to work.
The towel, dipped in the herbal bath and squeezed until it’s merely damp, drags gently across the strips of undamaged skin. Moze moves carefully, wiping away the day’s invisible grime. Jiaoqiu hasn’t done much today, but the body accumulates sweat and dead skin even when covered and unmoving. Cleansing it is important.
Jiaoqiu’s bare flesh is soft under the towel. Moze doesn’t press down very hard. He runs the towel across the skin carefully and clinically, not lingering on any particular spot. In between long, wide slashes and around the semi-circle of teeth marks on this side. Those go up to the neck. With his hand brushing against Jiaoqiu’s throat, he can feel the man’s steady pulse, a thrum of blood and life beating inside him.
Most of Jiaoqiu’s neck isn’t damaged, and neither is his right shoulder. Moze starts on those anyway.
Jiaoqiu shifts slightly in the tub. “I can get those myself.”
“I’m here anyway.” And Moze will probably do a better job.
Jiaoqiu sighs, but doesn’t complain further.
Moze gently scrubs at the long span of undamaged flesh. He has to re-dip the towel. Jiaoqiu remains quiet underneath him, breathing softly, eyes closed. Jiaoqiu’s skin slowly turns pink under the heat and pressure, a healthy color, warm and alive. Nothing like the terrible pallor in the Skysplitter.
Moze moves on to Jiaoqiu’s arms. Jiaoqiu opens his mouth as if to protest, then closes it again, letting Moze work him over in silence.
Jiaoqiu’s not especially muscular. His time on battlefields is mostly spent in a medical tent. He’s not unfit, though, more lean than skinny. He could defend himself if necessary, in some situations. Not in situations where his opponents are a pack of borisin twice his size with claws bigger than his hand.
For the briefest moment, Moze wonders if it was more than one of them. But no, there’s only the one set of claw marks on his hips, and the size makes it clear which one it was. Hoolay wouldn’t have shared. Moze puts the thought out of his mind almost immediately and returns to his work.
Arms turn to hands. Moze gently scrubs at those, too, every finger and the soft skin between, the muscle of the palm.
“It feels like I’m at a spa,” Jiaoqiu murmurs, a wry edge to his voice. “All it needs is a massage.”
“Do you want one?”
Jiaoqiu snorts. “No, thank you. You’re doing quite enough. If I want to relax, I’ll do it with the wine in my kitchen.”
Moze doesn’t think he’d be very good at massages anyway. He keeps working.
“Lean forward.”
Jiaoqiu leans forward, hair falling over his shoulders. Moze starts on his back.
He lifts the rest of Jiaoqiu’s hair out of the way and over his front. It hasn’t been washed either. It’s still soft, though, a smooth river under his hand.
The scars on Jiaoqiu’s back are just as wide and deep. It looks like flesh has been carved out of him. Debriding the wounds was necessary, of course, to rid them of the necrosis, but it leaves behind a sobering sight.
Moze finds himself lingering a little longer. It’s not an unpleasant task. He wasn’t able to save Jiaoqiu from the borisin, but he can do this, at least. And Jiaoqiu’s shoulders have lost some tension since he started. The sight may be sobering, but Moze feels peaceful, too. There’s no danger here. Just a simple task that he’s good at.
He wonders what it would feel like if it was just his hands on Jiaoqiu instead of the towel.
Eventually Jiaoqiu’s back is finished. The only scars that remain are the ones on his hips.
Tension ratchets back up in Jiaoqiu’s frame as Moze cleans around those. Each one is smaller than the slash marks, so in a sense it’s easier. In other senses it isn’t. He works quickly.
Once Moze’s finished with those, Jiaoqiu says, “I can get the rest myself, thank you,” in a firm voice, and this time Moze does not protest. He has no wish to get closer to the topic they’re not talking about.
But. “Your hair,” Moze says. It needs a wash too. And it’s a safe area.
Jiaoqiu is silent for a moment. “Very well,” he says. “Though I don’t know how you’ll manage it like this.”
There’s a plastic bucket in one of the lower cabinets, and a crate in the kitchen Jiaoqiu uses to take in harvest from the garden. Moze retrieves them both.
When he returns, he fills the bucket with hot water and places it on top of the upside-down crate, now behind the head of the tub. There. An adequate setup.
“Dare I ask what exactly you’re doing?” Right. Moze explains it. Jiaoqiu seems satisfied, more or less.
“Lean back again.” Jiaoqiu does, his arms resting loosely on the rim of the tub, and tilts his head back so his hair spills over into the bucket.
Most of it dips into the water. Moze wets his hands and runs his fingers down Jiaoqiu’s scalp, wetting the remaining hair and the soft fur over his ears. He’s no hairdresser, and his own personal care prioritizes hygiene over appearance. But he doesn’t see any complicated products in here anyway. Shampoo and conditioner are easy enough.
A dollop of shampoo spreads across his hands, and then fingers work into wet hair. There are some tangles. Moze works through them carefully, trying not to pull too hard.
“You really don’t have to do this,” Jiaoqiu murmurs. “I’m not that much of an invalid, and you’re not paid to be a hairdresser.”
“I’m not paid to clean your house, either.” Or the general’s house. She has threatened to add it to his paycheck, but it’s not as if he uses all of that anyway. All he really needs are basic living requirements, weapon maintenance, and good cleaning supplies. He supposes the last two do cost a little money.
“So this is just part of your hobby, then?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? It’s not like you to be unsure of something.”
It counts as cleaning. Moze’s sure of that. The itch subsides as he works, grime and germs scrubbed away properly, one less dirty thing in the world. But it also feels not dissimilar to undertaking a mission for Feixiao. A useful act for someone he respects.
A useful act in a warm, quiet room, Jiaoqiu relaxing under his hands, accepting of service.
Moze doesn’t think that counts as a hobby.
He doesn’t say anything. Jiaoqiu doesn’t press.
After shampoo and conditioner have both been applied and rinsed off, the smooth, wet river of Jiaoqiu’s hair turns to silk. Moze hesitates for a moment to consider Jiaoqiu’s tail. Part of it is already soaking in the shallow water, but the rest is dry. Should he wash that, too? Or given the positioning, would it be unwelcome? In any case, foxian grooming is a personal thing, reserved for family or lovers. Moze doesn’t think he counts as either of those. So he leaves it alone.
Task accomplished, Moze removes the stray hairs from his hands and dries himself off, and searches for the hairdryer. Hot air streams through, gradually drying the wet hair until all is finally done. Moze runs his fingers through the lower part of it, where Jiaoqiu won’t feel the touch. Soft, warm, pleasant.
Jiaoqiu rubs a lock of hair between thumb and forefinger. “It feels like you did a good job, at least. If it looks an absolute mess I can’t say.”
“It looks fine.” It looks good. Jiaoqiu always looks good. Even now, covered in scars, Moze could watch him for hours even if he wasn’t assigned to.
“Then, as I said, I can handle the rest myself. Thank you. You may leave.”
Moze returns every item to its rightful place, and leaves.
His own living quarters are in an apartment building, not a house. He has no need for a garden. It is a largely functional place, barring the occasional souvenirs Feixiao and Jiaoqiu foist upon him, knickknacks and wall scrolls and other odds and ends that have no real purpose but also no real inconvenience, and so he has not thrown any of them away. Feixiao and Jiaoqiu seem satisfied by the objects’ presence whenever they visit. That’s purpose enough, he supposes.
The gifts and general acquisitions of varying blades and whetstones are laid out in what constitutes his bedroom. Feixiao complained that it looked so empty with only a bed and a dresser in it; it’s much more full now. Other blades are in other locations around the apartment, so he’ll never be far from one, but most of them are there.
He hasn’t had dinner yet. He’s not much of a chef. For now, minimum caloric and nutritional requirements can be satisfied with one of his stashed protein bars. Jiaoqiu would be horrified, but Jiaoqiu is not here.
Moze eats, showers, checks his messages--Feixiao has complained about the long hours of meetings taking up her entire day; he responds with the appropriate sticker--and spends some time polishing and sharpening the blades he keeps in active use before he finally retires for the night. A quiet day.
As he lies in bed, waiting for sleep to steal over him, he finds his thoughts drifting towards the memory of Jiaoqiu’s skin flushed pink from the heat, and the soft sigh that slipped from Jiaoqiu’s mouth while Moze washed his back.
---
The following morning, after he’s finished morning exercises, Moze checks his messages to find a new one from Feixiao.
Feixiao: Can you watch Jiaoqiu again today? He just messaged me about coming back to work and he seemed unhappy when I told him he still needed to recover.
Moze: You think he won’t listen?
Feixiao: No, he listened, he’s just unhappy about it. I think he’d do better if one of us was there, but I’m busy.
Moze: Got it. I’ll be at his place soon.
Moze: How did he message you?
Feixiao: Speech to text, apparently.
He’d been planning on going anyway, at least to check up on him. And an order is an order.
He makes his way towards Jiaoqiu’s house.
When he gets there, he knocks on the door. It takes a minute for Jiaoqiu to open it.
Faint dark circles sit under Jiaoqiu’s eyes, and his posture is stiff. He looks tired. He looks…something.
“It’s me,” Moze says.
“I figured as much,” Jiaoqiu says. “Did Feixiao tell you to babysit me again?”
“She said you might be happier if one of us was with you.”
“Hm.” Jiaoqiu doesn’t elaborate. “Well, come on in.”
Moze comes in. The morning continues.
Jiaoqiu’s in a mood.
Moze doesn’t know what to do about it. Words aren’t his weapon of choice at the best of times, and emotionally complex topics are far beyond his capabilities.
Jiaoqiu doesn’t talk much during breakfast. He leaves the dishes to Moze and retreats to his office, burying himself in study and, eventually, quiet dictation, a jade abacus reading aloud its text and copying down his speech in response. It might seem ordinary, but Jiaoqiu’s shoulders are tense as a wire, his voice stiff and harsh. Something is wrong.
When Jiaoqiu breaks for lunch, he goes to the kitchen and stands there, unmoving, for several seconds. Moze is about to ask if he’s alright when Jiaoqiu says, “The last thing I saw was Hoolay.”
Moze doesn’t respond.
Jiaoqiu braces his hands against the edge of the counter, fingers digging into the polished stone as he stares sightlessly at the wall behind it. “The tumbledust was already taking effect, and so the pain was fading. Sight and hearing followed. With Hoolay filling my vision as it was, that was the view my eyes closed upon. And there has been nothing else since.”
Moze doesn’t respond.
A mirthless smile crawls across Jiaoqiu’s face. “I expected that would be the case, of course, but I didn’t expect that I would later wake up. On that day, I found comfort in the knowledge that it would all be over in a matter of hours. But that did not happen, and now…a dead man’s memories vanish with the rest of him, but the living are not so lucky.”
A few words unstick themselves from Moze’s throat. “Do you wish you’d died?”
Jiaoqiu’s face might be unreadable even to people who have facility in reading such things. “No. Of course life is preferable. But I find my thoughts wandering to the notion that death would have been easier.”
“We’re happy you’re alive,” Moze says, though the words are clumsy and horribly inadequate and he wishes he had a better way to express the feeling. Feixiao might be able to. Feixiao isn’t here. It’s just Moze, and Moze doesn’t know what to do.
Jiaoqiu laughs softly. “Don’t worry, I’ve no doubts on that front. You and Feixiao have been mother-henning me since the moment I was released from the hospital. At least she’s only sent you, and not cast aside her duties to watch me herself.”
“Maybe it’d be good for you to see her.”
Jiaoqiu’s laugh isn’t as soft this time.
“Hear her,” Moze says. Sourness sits heavy in his stomach. “I’ll send her a message.”
He pulls out his jade abacus and starts to type.
Moze: I think Jiaoqiu needs to talk to you. Are you available?
Feixiao: I’m in a meeting but I can cancel it.
Moze: He’d be mad if you did. Dinner?
Feixiao: Dinner. Tell him I’m bringing wine.
Moze repeats the message.
By now Jiaoqiu has turned around and is leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “I’ll have to think of a menu,” he says. “That’s something to do, at least.”
And something to think about that isn’t Hoolay. A little of the weight in Moze’s stomach eases.
“Speaking of food, I should get started on lunch. Any requests?”
“Whatever you make is good.”
“Ah, you didn’t say that when I made the offal stew with an extra handful of prickly ash berries.”
A little more weight fades. Maybe it was just a bad morning. Though he wonders why Jiaoqiu even brought it up in the first place. Did something remind him of it earlier? Or does he just think about it sometimes?
“At any rate, I don’t have enough food in the house to feed three people, and I needed to go shopping anyway. I suppose you’ll join me?”
“Yes.” Getting out of the house might be helpful, too, so long as it’s for a relatively easy activity and Moze is there.
Jiaoqiu spends some time ruminating over what to make for dinner, and then they head out together.
Jiaoqiu’s front door is atop a few stone steps. He had a little difficulty with them when he first arrived, and now he still hesitates, stepping slowly and carefully.
When Jiaoqiu’s on flat ground again, Moze says, “You should get a cane.”
“My hearing has improved. Obstacles aren’t so hard to detect.”
“Can you hear a rock in your path?”
Jiaoqiu sighs. “I will consider it for the future, if it proves necessary.”
Better than denying it outright. Moze’ll take it for now.
Still, the street is long, and even if it’s straight it’s hard to walk a straight line when you can’t see where you’re going. Jiaoqiu’s steps veer slightly in a diagonal, and one of them lands halfway off the edge of the sidewalk.
He loses balance, swearing under his breath, and nearly trips into the road before Moze grabs his arm and pulls him back. Jiaoqiu briefly falls against Moze, back to chest. His hair brushes against Moze’s cheek. Moze can smell the faint, lingering floral scent of the shampoo from last night, and feel the solidity of Jiaoqiu’s back against his chest.
Jiaoqiu straightens and steps away, fortunately in the right direction. “Thank you,” he mutters.
“I can order a cab.”
“I’ve walked to the market from here a thousand times. It’s not far.”
“When are you going to admit that the exact way you used to live is no longer possible?” The words come out harsher than Moze intends them. But it’s frustrating that Jiaoqiu still tries to act as if his capabilities have not changed, as if his life can be the same as it was.
Jiaoqiu’s mouth flattens. “I’ve accepted some changes, haven’t I? Or I wouldn’t allow you to babysit me in the first place.”
“You consider getting a cane, you ask if you can return to work early, you nearly cut your finger off--will you wait until the next time you walk into the street to decide your life is different now?”
Jiaoqiu opens his mouth as if to say something, and then doesn’t.
A long moment passes. He exhales. The dark circles under his eyes from this morning are still there.
“I’ll order a cane after lunch,” he says quietly. “But I’d prefer the fresh air to a cab right now.”
Moze can’t fault him for that. It’s a beautiful day.
He slips his arm around the crook of Jiaoqiu’s. “Follow me, then.”
The corner of Jiaoqiu’s mouth quirks up. “Such a gentleman. Do you even know the way?”
“I’ll tell you when we reach a new street and you can tell me where to turn.”
“Very well. Lead the way.”
Jiaoqiu’s arm in his is slim and solid. A constant reminder of his presence.
The walk is slow, but Jiaoqiu’s path is steadier. The directions are easy enough, and the market turns out to indeed not be very far. Jiaoqiu tells him that’s part of why he chose to live in this neighborhood.
The market street is crowded, shoppers and passersby bustling past, carrying bags and boxes of produce, meat, pastries, bread. Some stalls have lines--one, selling what appears to be cakes, is especially long, the line trailing nearly down the block and inconveniencing several other stalls along its way. One of the customers in the line is holding her jade abacus up and chatting into it, tilting the screen to show the area around her. Ah. It must be a trend of some kind.
Moze tells Jiaoqiu about it. Jiaoqiu huffs out a soft breath. “I’ve bought from there before. Overly sweet, and more interested in concocting new flavors than perfecting the recipes for their old ones. I don’t need anything from it.”
At first Moze wonders if walking through the crowd will prove difficult, but the people around them part obligingly, glancing nervously at Moze while they do. He’s not even doing anything. But he supposes it makes for easier navigation.
Moze asks which stalls Jiaoqiu wants to visit, and they end up at a butcher’s. The woman running the stall brightens at the sight of them. “Mr. Jiaoqiu! It’s been a few weeks since I last saw you. You haven’t found a new market to go to, have you?”
Jiaoqiu smiles. “Of course not, Mrs. Li. I’ve been away on work business.”
Mrs. Li’s eyes widen. “Right, right, that business with the Luofu! I heard all about it, very frightening. But at least that devil’s put down for good, eh?”
Jiaoqiu’s smile strains a little. “Quite.”
“And who’s this young man of yours escorting you around? I could use one, let me tell you, my husband hardly lifts a hand to help these days. Four centuries of marriage and all he wants to do is play celestial jade with the other old codgers at the Singing Dragon.” She shakes her head, frowning at the mental image of her old layabout.
“Ah, this is my coworker, Moze.” Jiaoqiu gestures towards him; he nods at her in response. His arm is still around Jiaoqiu’s. “I’m afraid I sustained some injuries on the Luofu. My vision in particular. He’s my seeing-eye crow for the day.”
Mrs. Li’s eyebrows crinkle in sympathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. You know what you need? A good bone broth. I’ve got some oxtails perfect for it, plenty of collagen, good for the blood. You’re a bit pale.”
“As a matter of fact, I came here looking for pork belly. Do you have any today?”
“Of course, of course! How much?”
Jiaoqiu pays for a pound of it with a tap of his jade abacus, and she hands them a thick, marbled strip of raw meat wrapped in brown paper. It goes into a canvas bag, and they proceed on their way, Mrs. Li waving at them.
“Apologies for that,” Jiaoqiu says, once they’re out of hearing range. “She’s a nice old woman, but she does go on a bit.”
“It’s fine.” A talkative old woman is low on his list of concerns. Mostly he’s trying not to let who’s this young man of yours rattle around in his brain.
Produce comes next, a stall run by a Vidyadhara man and woman. They, too, greet Jiaoqiu as a regular, though more politely than Mrs. Li. The man glances at Moze, but neither of them question the arrangement.
Jiaoqiu pauses at the large drawers of vegetables. “Moze, could you point out where the bok choy is?”
Moze temporarily slips his arm out of Jiaoqiu’s, and takes his hand, moving it over the display and down onto the box of leafy green shoots. “This one.”
“You could’ve just told me,” Jiaoqiu says dryly.
Moze doesn’t respond.
Jiaoqiu turns his head back in the approximate direction of the stall owners. “I’ve suffered some damage to my vision,” he explains. “I apologize if I knock anything over.”
“It’s no trouble,” the male Vidyadhara says, shaking his head. “Just let us know if you need any help.”
“I think my associate here has that covered, whether I want him to or not.”
Moze doesn’t respond.
Jiaoqiu runs his hand over the container of bok choy. He picks up one, and runs his fingers over it. “No damage that I can feel. How’s the color?”
“Bright green,” Moze says. “It looks normal.”
Jiaoqiu hmms. “And the size and texture are about right. How about this one?”
He selects a few of them in that manner, Moze describing the attributes Jiaoqiu can’t determine himself. Moze’s not an expert in produce, but he knows colors, at least. If the Vidyadhara couple are offended by the close inspection, they don’t say.
Ginger root and a yellow onion are acquired the same way, and all purchased. Moze takes Jiaoqiu’s arm again, and they return to the rest of the market.
Other staples are picked up--eggs, oranges, another jar of pickled vegetables. The last several stalls of the market turn out to be meal-focused; cardboard containers of fried meat, dumplings, berrypheasant skewers, noodles. Jiaoqiu sniffs at the air.
“Is there a steamed bun stall here?” he asks. “That would serve for lunch, I think.”
There is. Moze points it out to him, and they end up with a pair of large, fluffy steamed buns in paper napkins, still hot.
Moze takes a bite out of his. Almost too hot, actually. The meat filling nearly burns his tongue. “Careful, it’s hot,” he says, before noticing Jiaoqiu already chewing on his with apparent contentment.
Jiaoqiu swallows. “That’s why I wanted one,” he says, and doesn’t elaborate. “Yours should cool down on the walk back.”
It does. It’s tasty, once it’s cool enough for the taste to come out.
They make their way back.
Moze finally lets go of Jiaoqiu’s arm once they’re inside the house. His own arm hangs loosely at his side, feeling empty. It was nice.
This young man of yours.
He doesn’t think about it.
He helps Jiaoqiu puts the food away and settles in for an afternoon of watching Jiaoqiu work. The afternoon is quiet in spirit if not in volume, the jade abacus still dutifully reading out its words.
Feixiao arrives in the early evening, the promised bottle of wine hanging in her hand. She fills the space, as she always does, her voice loud and warm and exuberant, praising the red-cooked pork and seasoned bok choy Jiaoqiu puts together, commenting that his skills haven’t lowered a bit. She ends up drinking most of the wine herself--Jiaoqiu politely reminding her alcohol is on his list of limited foods--but Jiaoqiu does drink a little, and he seems happier with her here.
A curious triangle. Feixiao and Jiaoqiu were a pair of sorts before Moze met them, and Moze serves Feixiao more directly than he does Jiaoqiu. Without question she is the lodestone in both of their lives. But he and Jiaoqiu are not strangers. Weight still carries. Moze is not so self-deluding that he believes Jiaoqiu only tolerates him; respect and loyalty, at minimum, are undeniable, but there is an intimacy to shared devotion. A camaraderie born of understanding. No one loves Feixiao as deeply as they do, and in that commonality lies its own form of affection.
And something small and quiet, resting softly in Moze’s ribs.
Feixiao excuses herself far past evening, promising to visit again when she’s free, and making Jiaoqiu promise to stay home and recover. She sways slightly as she walks into the night. Moze briefly contemplates following her to make sure she gets home safely, but she knows not to pilot a starskiff like this, and any mugger who thinks they’ve found an easy target would soon learn otherwise. And besides, he finds himself with a selfish hope that the ritual from last night might repeat.
When the door closes, Jiaoqiu sighs and says, “I suppose you’re planning on assisting me with a bath again.”
“Do you not want me to?”
“The issue of wound care remains. It would be appreciated.”
Appreciated. So it’s not something to put up with. Moze feels a little less selfish about it.
It goes much as it did last night, quiet and warm and with a vague herbal scent from the water. Jiaoqiu sits in silence as Moze diligently runs the damp towel across the patchwork of unscarred flesh. Are the wounds slightly smaller than last night? It’s hard to say.
Cleaning is always a soothing activity. Moze was already relaxed from the evening with Feixiao, but the quiet rhythm of cleansing grime from skin is satisfying. Still, the selfishness returns; Moze lets his fingertips brush against the back of Jiaoqiu’s neck, briefly feel soft, heated skin, and a tiny feeling curls in his chest.
At the hips, again, Jiaoqiu stills, his breath turning slow and even in a controlled fashion. Moze remembers what Jiaoqiu said in the morning, about Hoolay being the last thing he saw--and a cold darkness rises in the back of his mind, silently seeking a target, the blade in the dark that he is supposed to be and has always accepted as his nature and yet…the target is long gone, and his failure is written across Jiaoqiu’s body, and the cold darkness has nowhere to go.
He can do this, at least. His fractional attempt to atone for that mangled rescue. He can do this. He reminds himself that he can do this.
Focus, then, on that tiny feeling, selfish as it may be. It’s small and quiet but it’s warm, and as his fingers work shampoo into Jiaoqiu’s long hair his thoughts settle.
When it’s finished, or as finished as it will be before Jiaoqiu does the rest himself, Jiaoqiu says, “Thank you. Today would’ve been…worse, without you and the general.”
Moze sits back down. He doesn’t know how to broach the subject. But Jiaoqiu’s never expected him to be eloquent. “Why were you thinking about Hoolay?”
Jiaoqiu pauses. “A nightmare, that’s all. The specifics have since faded. But it made for an unpleasant morning, and the feeling would’ve lingered had I remained by myself.”
Another way to be useful. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” Moze says.
A faint smile touches upon Jiaoqiu’s face. “That would be appreciated.”
Moze returns to his apartment in the dark. When he arrives, he notices a slight darkness on the carpet near the front door. Accumulated dirt. The whole apartment needs to be vacuumed, really, and the surfaces dusted and disinfected. He’d planned on doing a deep clean as soon as he got back from the Luofu, but he’s spent so much time at Jiaoqiu’s house, he’s really only been home to sleep. Well, he can sacrifice a little of that.
More soothing routine, every particle of dust and dirt removed a balm to lingering disquiet. The sharp smell of disinfectant and the comfortable feeling of the flocked lining in rubber gloves. Piles of stained wet wipes and paper towels in the garbage. He barely notices the passing of hours, only the gradual subsiding of itchiness. When all is finally done and clean and quiet, he stands in the middle of his living room, looking out the window.
A beautiful night sky. Serenely black, speckled with stars. Projections, he’s told, of the view outside the ship, the outer walls otherwise blocking all sight of it. Jiaoqiu told him once that the scale is a bit off, the view not changing as much as it should from one part of the Yaoqing to the next; the space-folding that gives the Xianzhou ships their bounty of land and air and ocean far larger than the size of the ships themselves makes for a distorted view of the outside. It makes astronomy a bit complicated, but to a layperson, it just means the stars don’t change much.
They look beautiful whatever position they’re in, anyway. Moze prepares for bed.
Soft, smooth sheets. He’ll do laundry tomorrow. He falls asleep within minutes.
And…
A dimly-lit, warm quiet. Indistinct environs, but the bed is large and comfortable, the blankets pushed behind his feet soft and warm. Under his hands the mattress is firm, secure.
Jiaoqiu’s hair pools across the pillow, a river of silk spread over cotton. His face is tilted up, and his eyes are just barely open, a lidded view of orange irises that almost give the impression that their owner is using them. His lips are slightly parted, a bare hint of pink tongue just within view. His skin is flushed from the heat.
The scars still litter his bare torso. Great gouges of flesh missing, the rake of claws and the work of fangs, a body patterned with the aftermath of cruelty. Pale skin between the messes of scar tissue. Slender hips and slim legs, the arch of a calf muscle and the smooth line of a thigh. One hand rests next to the pillow, the other loosely at his side.
Jiaoqiu isn’t looking at him, of course. But he would be, if he could.
Achingly beautiful. Moze doesn’t think he’d ever know how to express it. He reaches down one hand and carefully brushes his fingers across a span of unmarred skin between the slashes on Jiaoqiu’s chest. As soft and warm as he thought it would be. Another touch, a caress down Jiaoqiu’s stomach, lean muscle giving way to the softness of a life with little physical demand. Jiaoqiu’s breath hitches underneath him, a bob in the column of his throat.
Fingers trace the patterns of bare skin, weaving past still-healing scar tissue and lingering on larger patches of healthy flesh. Moze’s throat tightens.
Jiaoqiu’s hand reaches for Moze’s wrist. It travels up his arm, fingers gliding across muscle until it slips up his neck and onto his face, cupping his cheek. Jiaoqiu’s head tilts to the side just slightly, a smile settling onto his face, his eyes crinkling as they still look at him.
A lump sits in Moze’s throat. Words would be insufficient even if he had any. He turns his head to press a kiss at Jiaoqiu’s wrist.
Time blurs a little. He’s kissing Jiaoqiu’s mouth, now, head lowered but chests not touching, not putting pressure on the wounds. Inexperience makes it clumsy, but Jiaoqiu doesn’t seem to mind, lips and tongue moving together slowly, sweetly. One of Jiaoqiu’s hands is on the back of Moze’s neck, the other in his hair. Heat coils in Moze’s stomach, soaking his senses in warmth and desire. He kisses Jiaoqiu’s neck, between the bite marks, and a soft moan falls from Jiaoqiu’s lips.
Moze pulls back, lips wet. He shifts back further on the bed, between Jiaoqiu’s legs, and takes hold of Jiaoqiu’s erection, jutting out at the apex between soft thighs. The skin is heated silk, and Jiaoqiu arches slightly, another small moan slipping into the air. Moze lowers himself to take the head of Jiaoqiu’s cock into his mouth.
Silk on his tongue, slightly salty at the tip. Jiaoqiu shudders, his hands sliding onto Moze’s head, fingers burying into his hair. Moze laves his tongue around the head, unsure if there are any particular techniques to employ; but Jiaoqiu seems to be enjoying his efforts so far. He takes more of Jiaoqiu’s cock into his mouth, careful to avoid his teeth.
Jiaoqiu’s fingers tighten in Moze’s hair as his cock slides across Moze’s tongue. Moze doesn’t think he can handle much farther. He settles into a rhythm of bobbing his head, reasoning that friction is pleasurable; the small soft sounds spilling from Jiaoqiu’s lips are evidence enough that he was right. Pleasure roils in his own gut, at the sensations and the sounds, the simple satisfaction of attending. Jiaoqiu falls apart under the work of his mouth, and the heated pleasure of doing so goes bone deep.
Eventually Jiaoqiu comes into his mouth with a cry, a burst of wet heat hitting his soft palate. It slides onto his tongue, and the taste is bitter, but he doesn’t mind. He swallows dutifully.
Jiaoqiu’s hands in his hair turn soft, fingers combing through the strands rather than pulling. Moze pulls off from Jiaoqiu’s cock and rises up to get a better look at his handiwork.
Jiaoqiu’s skin is flushed, his mouth open and panting, his eyes closed. At this moment Moze has never wanted anything more than to kiss him, so he does. Their tongues tangle together, slow and languid, the aftertaste of bitterness lingering but drowned out by a quiet, visceral satisfaction, a warmth flowing through him body and soul.
Words tangle in Moze’s throat. Are you happy? Did this help? Did it ease anything? Did I bring you happiness? Will you smile again? Will it be because of me?
And though the words go unspoken, in a dream, the answer is clear.
But there the dream ends.
Moze’s eyes open to the bright sunlight of dawn.
The blanket around him is tangled. His cock aches, painfully hard, demanding release. For a few moments he just stares up at the bedroom ceiling.
Physical needs must be met. He takes his cock in his hand and closes his eyes again, tries to think of nothing. Indistinct images sharpen into the memory of Jiaoqiu’s soft smile underneath him. He finds release at the thought of it.
He opens his eyes again. He needs to wash his hands. Take a shower again, though he took one last night; his skin is damp with sweat. Do laundry; the sheets and blanket are sweaty as well. The itch roils in his mind.
He scrubs at his skin until it is nearly raw. He wonders if there are ways to ensure a dreamless sleep. Medicines of some sort. Jiaoqiu might know. Jiaoqiu would ask why he wanted one. He could lie and speak of nightmares. Jiaoqiu would show sympathy. The idea of it is so unpleasant Moze washes his hands again, just to have something else to focus on.
Morning exercises. He should have waited for a shower. He takes another one.
Everything about his body is undeniably clean, and any further scrubbing risks physical harm. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that. But Jiaoqiu and Feixiao would disapprove, and want to know why.
Moze puts on clean clothes and spends some amount of time sharpening an older blade to a razor point. The whetstone turns dark with shed steel dust. That needs to be cleaned, too.
There’s a message on his phone.
Jiaoqiu: I note you’re not here yet. Or if you are, you didn’t say hello. Would you like breakfast? If so, you should arrive soon.
It takes a minute for him to answer.
Moze: I’m on my way.
More suspicious if he doesn’t show. And he doesn’t want to avoid him, anyway. Jiaoqiu’s presence is comfortable. Knowing for certain that Jiaoqiu is safe is soothing. Necessary.
Jiaoqiu doesn’t need to know. And it wouldn’t be the first time Moze was more reticent than usual, so he won’t see any oddity in it. And even if Moze isn’t entirely successful in keeping tension off his face, well. It’s not as if he’d be able to tell.
So Moze arrives at Jiaoqiu’s house and says nothing, beyond “It’s me.” He silently eats breakfast—congee, fresh berries, and a fragrant jasmine tea—and silently does the dishes, and silently settles in for his day’s duty.
But no amount of silence can prevent the images from cycling through his mind.
Attraction is a largely foreign thing. Inadvertent physical stimulation sometimes occurs after sleep, on rare occasions, and so Moze is not unaware of how to deal with it. But it’s never occupied his mind beyond that. In an objective sense he knows Feixiao and Jiaoqiu have appearances that would typically be considered attractive, but it’s no more important a fact than the colors of their hair. And yet.
It can’t simply have been the novelty of seeing Jiaoqiu naked; he’s done that before, in clinical settings, and it was never particularly interesting. So it must be the new intimacy. Physical closeness and the sensation of care. It stands to reason, then, that the most effective way of suppressing this attraction would be to cease the activity. Without further stimulation, his mind will quiet in time.
But that would be another failure, another inability to help because of his own inadequacy, and the thought of it sits in Moze’s stomach like a stone.
Which would be the greater failing? Stopping, and thus denying Jiaoqiu aid, or continuing, and harboring a reprehensible thought?
Moze is no Hoolay, but Jiaoqiu spoke of memories. And he always stiffens when Moze cleans around those scars.
Such thoughts, then, are inexcusable. Selfish. Moze should rip them out before the roots grow too deep.
He has a lingering fear they already have.
During dinner, Jiaoqiu puts his spoon down and says, “You’ve been quiet today. Is there something on your mind?”
“I have nothing to say.” The usual answer, when asked some variant of that question.
Jiaoqiu hums. “How’s the food, then?”
“It’s good.” Dumpling soup, the wrappers soft, the ground pork and wood ear filling intensely flavorful, the broth simple but delicious. Jiaoqiu chopped the mushrooms and scallions himself, slowly and with supervision. He seemed satisfied that he could do it at all, but still frustrated that it took such extra effort.
“It would be better with some chili oil.”
“You’re still not allowed any.” And given the amount of chili oil Jiaoqiu usually adds to recipes, it probably wouldn’t be better that way.
Jiaoqiu rests his head on his hand. “The Ranzhi school teaches that eating food you enjoy can hasten recovery.”
“Are you planning on doing that?”
Jiaoqiu sighs. He picks up his spoon again. “No. That particular order from the Luofu’s Alchemy Commission is sensible.”
An ordinary conversation. Moze almost feels better. Jiaoqiu isn’t suspicious of anything, and the day was more or less calm.
Still, the thoughts linger. And sitting across the table from Jiaoqiu gives Moze the perfect angle to stare.
The slope of his nose, the shape of his lips, the length of his eyelashes, the soft curve of his cheekbones, the soft pink river of his hair. Slim shoulders, slender fingers, a vulnerable neck. His throat bobs as he swallows another spoonful of soup broth. His face is still and quiet and achingly beautiful.
Sour guilt burns in Moze’s stomach, but he can’t look away.
Evening passes. Jiaoqiu undresses in his room and walks to the bathroom without even questioning if Moze will follow.
What choice does he have? He thought he had one, but he doesn’t; he can’t walk away any more than he could look away. Moze follows in silence.
His stomach roils as he brushes the towel across Jiaoqiu’s chest. A quiet happiness sits in his chest, but the layers of guilt and fear almost drown it out. Almost. Jiaoqiu’s bare body is so close he could nearly touch it with his bare fingers--but he won’t, of course, he won’t, he can’t. And yet even just that closeness makes the small feeling curl tighter.
When he washes Jiaoqiu’s back, the bare nape of his neck is starkly visible, hair brushed over one shoulder. The absurd desire to brush his lips against it rises softly. Moze exhales, quietly, carefully, but he’s close enough that Jiaoqiu must have felt the warmth of it anyway.
For a vile moment Moze wishes the tub and water weren’t there, that he could pull Jiaoqiu against him, back to chest, rest his head on Jiaoqiu’s shoulder and breathe. He imagines a soft laugh, a feeling neglected? Well, it’s nearly bedtime, you can hold me as much as you want there. Disgusting. He should leave. He should stop and leave and ask Feixiao if there are any assignments where he’ll have to be away for weeks and bury himself in the simple clarity of violence. He should leave. He runs the towel across the soft plane of Jiaoqiu’s shoulders.
“I find it hard to believe there are truly no other duties for you to attend to,” Jiaoqiu says.
“This is what Feixiao assigned me to.”
“I understand that, of course, but surely there are more important tasks that could use the skills of the general’s left-hand man. The matter with the borisin is hardly resolved. Hoolay may be dead, but the infiltrators came from somewhere.”
He doesn’t seem tense at the use of Hoolay’s name. That’s good. “As the attack occurred on Luofu territory, the Luofu insists on handling the interrogation of the remaining borisin themselves.”
A trace of disbelief in Jiaoqiu’s voice. “The Yaoqing can’t be doing nothing.”
“Feixiao has assigned other operatives to the investigation. I’m not the only person in the Yaoqing capable of fieldwork.”
A soft huff, nearly a laugh. “I suppose that’s true. Still, you’re the best agent she has. Babysitting is a waste of your skills.”
“Is it so hard to believe I am here because I wish to be?”
Silence and stillness.
Jiaoqiu’s voice takes an odd tone. “Guilt is a poor look on you, Moze.”
A flash of fear. How has he--
“That first rescue attempt would never have succeeded. One man against several borisin, including Hoolay himself? Even for you, a lucky escape was the best possible outcome. I don’t blame you for failing. Frankly, I’m glad you survived at all.”
Oh. Not that this is much easier.
Moze lowers the damp towel onto the rim of the bathtub. “I do not see this solely as penance,” he says, since denying it fully would earn him a scoff. “Your recovery is important. Someone must see to it, and I would rather that someone be me.”
Jiaoqiu exhales. “An act of camaraderie, then? I suppose the three of us have been living in each other’s pockets over the years.”
A right hand, a left hand, and the body they’re attached to. But they are not three parts of a body, they are three people, each an individual, and they don’t have to be three in everything.
And yet the thought of saying that makes Moze’s throat stick together.
Moze shifts over, to get a look at Jiaoqiu’s face instead of sitting behind him. Jiaoqiu’s ears twitch at the sound of it, and he turns to face Moze directly.
The bathroom light is harsher than the soft light of the dining room. Jiaoqiu’s face stands out more starkly, faint dark circles under his eyes easier to view. Less than they were yesterday, but they haven’t vanished completely. His eyes are closed, of course, but Moze feels the look pierce through his chest regardless.
“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” Jiaoqiu says quietly. “An adult, certainly, but you weren’t when Feixiao found you, and by Xianzhou standards that was not so long ago. And of course you age slower than we do.”
His hand reaches out, slowly, brushes against Moze’s shoulder before sliding up to the side of his head, cupping his face. It’s so like the dream that Moze stills, his breath hitching.
“I’m grateful for your company,” Jiaoqiu says. “But I know you, and I know you’re hiding something. If it isn’t guilt, what is it?”
Moze’s pulse thrums in his ears. His grip on the rim of the tub tightens. Sourness and dread and fear churn in his stomach, his chest, his throat. He can’t say it. But what can he say? What lie will come out sounding reasonable? Any words at all would tangle on his tongue.
He doesn’t say anything.
“It’s strange,” Jiaoqiu murmurs, after a moment. “My hearing has only heightened so far in recent days. But in this moment I can hear your heartbeat. What rouses your pulse so?”
His thumb brushes across Moze’s cheek, barely touching the soft skin underneath his eye. Moze feels like a bowstring, pulled so taut it’s about to break.
“Louder, now. Well, then. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. But I think I know the answer.”
Jiaoqiu’s voice and face are soft. Casual. As if it’s barely a concern, As if what drenches Moze’s veins in acid hardly matters to him at all.
“I understand why you might wish to keep that a secret. Still, you know me as well as I know you. You know I wouldn’t refuse to speak to you again, or insist Feixiao assign you far away, or anything so dramatic. Will you at least tell me what makes you so afraid to say it?”
A long, long, moment passes, Moze’s entire body feeling as if it’s on the verge of collapse. His mind paces like a caged animal. His chest aches, and aches, and aches.
After what seems like an eternity of tension, he whispers, “Hoolay.”
Jiaoqiu sighs. “Ah, like I said. So young.”
His fingers lightly stroke Moze’s hair, and then his hand withdraws. Moze feels it like a spike of ice in his stomach.
“In recovery I may be, but I am not so fragile that the mere idea of desire shatters me. Least of all from you. Do you think I have any fear of you, or of the ridiculous notion that desire can make a person lose control?”
Moze doesn’t respond.
After a moment, Jiaoqiu says, “I don’t, to be clear.”
That wasn’t what Moze was afraid of, not really. But it was--a factor, perhaps. A small and irrational presence in the back of his mind. It eases, now, quietly, uncertainly.
“In a way, it’s flattering,” Jiaoqiu says dryly. “At my age there’s hardly a surplus of strapping young men knocking at my door. Not that I ever had any great wish for it, but it’s nice to know these old bones still hold some appeal.”
Moze can’t fathom the idea of anyone not seeing Jiaoqiu as beautiful.
Jiaoqiu runs his hand along the rim of the tub until he reaches Moze’s hand, then rests his palm over the knuckles of it, long fingers lightly brushing at Moze’s wrist. “I can’t imagine your silence now is because you have nothing to say. Too many things to say, more likely, and no way to say all of them at once. I think I understand the gist of it, anyway.
“This need not change anything. You can pretend this conversation never happened, if you want.”
Moze has to say something. He forces words out of his throat, just for the sake of not sitting there like a silent fool. “I want to be of service,” he says, his voice coming out rough. “As a blade, or a pair of eyes, or whatever is needed. That’s all.”
“You’re allowed to want more than that,” Jiaoqiu says softly.
Moze doesn’t have the words to convey the breadth of it. It’s not a small thing, is what he’s saying. Just a focused one. Not a limitation. A structure. “That’s what I want,” he repeats.
Jiaoqiu lightly squeezes the back of his hand. “I suppose you’re the expert on yourself.”
Moze does want more, but not in that sense. His want is a quiet thing, coiled up, wrapped in shadow, not meant to be seen; now it’s exposed, and the light shining on it is a searing pain. It was easier when even he didn’t know it was there. All he can do is try to package it back up again in the comforting dark. But even in shadow, the shape of it is visible.
Jiaoqiu tilts his head, as if considering. “How should I put it, then. Hm.” The corner of his lips quirks up. “You’ve been useful. Thank you.”
Moze’s chest burns.
“And I’ve been a little difficult, perhaps.” For a moment, Jiaoqiu is silent. He rests his other hand on his upper thigh. His voice is soft when he says, “You can wash the rest of me, if you’d like.”
Moze hesitates. Jiaoqiu was so insistent on handling it himself, before. “Are you sure?”
“Really, how many times today must I remind you that I trust you.”
“…all right.”
It’s clinical. No hint of desire rises as he cleans off Jiaoqiu’s lower half, nor even any embarrassment. The neutral state of maintaining a body. But there is warmth, still, and the satisfaction of service. Jiaoqiu’s calves, thighs, partly wet from the shallow water, turn a healthy pink under the towel, and there is no tension in his lower back, no sign of residual fear in Jiaoqiu’s face as Moze cleans.
When all is done, hair and body both, Jiaoqiu steps out of the tub. Moze dries him off, another previously unallowed act. Jiaoqiu stands naked before him.
Jiaoqiu’s hand reaches forward, brushes against Moze’s collarbone and then up to his hair. He pats him on the head. “Thank you,” he says again, a smile on his face. “That’ll be all for today. Go home and get some sleep.”
Moze nods, and then forces himself to say, “Yes.” After a moment, he manages, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Moze leaves through the front door. The bathroom window is too small.
When he returns to his apartment, he stands in the living room for several minutes. The trip back wasn’t long enough to settle his thoughts. They swirl together, tinges of ache mixed in with drifting uncertainty mixed in with a strange little form of happiness.
He’d usually wash his hands at this point. But the soap and water of washing Jiaoqiu covered that, and the itch is quiet.
He wants to…
He’s not sure what he wants to do.
Part of him wants to wrap himself around Jiaoqiu and stay there until the morning. He knows that won’t happen, and ache coils around his chest at the reminder. But the want itself is nearly comforting. And he’s been given permission, essentially, to want it, even if he’ll never have it.
Part of him wants to spend the rest of the night sharpening blades and disinfecting surfaces, but it’s not really something he wants so much as something he’s used to wanting. Not wanting it is foreign. The itch is rarely as quiet as it is now, and the loss of it is disorienting.
In the absence of a clear answer, he goes to bed.
As he lies awake in the dark, he remembers the look of the scars on Jiaoqiu’s body, the dark red gouges harshly reminding the both of them of a horrible time that lives within them still. Compared to two days ago, they were just a little smaller.
The wounds are healing.
He drifts into sleep.
In the early sunshine of the following morning, his jade abacus lights up with a message.
Jiaoqiu: The market opens relatively early, and I find myself with nothing to do at the moment. Would you like to escort me again?
The strange little form of happiness blooms.
Moze: On my way.