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The skiff tracked a slow path through space, closing the distance between orbital station and gate-ready carrier. The nearby planet was a bright green jewel, looking, through the windows, small enough to be set into a ring and placed upon a genteel hand. Families sat in sleepy clusters, and individual passengers held their luggage between their feet, leaning back in their chairs to read or doze.
It was surprisingly cold, although Zhou Zishu had been subjected to a blanket being draped across his lap already. It was more common for these skiffs, by dint of overcompensation, to be sweaty and uncomfortably hot inside.
"I'm not an old man," he told Wen Kexing.
"Of course not," Wen Kexing said. "Here, drink this."
Warmth flowed down his throat, prickling out through his organic matter. He considered shifting his perception—adopting, for the sake of curiosity, his old rigidity of thought, from before he had been much more than a vague impression of a person. He could note the exact number of lives on board and the location of every possible source of danger, and he could decide which people were most disposable as well as how he would dispatch them if the need arose.
The thought made him feel tired.
"Do you want me to scrape anything else from the station relays, before we lose signal?" Wen Kexing asked.
"Pornography," Zhou Zishu said.
"Really? What type?"
He slanted an unimpressed look at Wen Kexing, who smiled at him, gently teasing.
"Oh," Wen Kexing said after a moment's pause, with transparent insincerity, "too late—the signal seems to be gone already. What a shame."
His smile broadened, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
The skiff's recirculated air smelled chemically clean. An ache was forming behind Zhou Zishu's eyes, in the hollow spaces of their sockets. His vision wanted to stutter like a bad feed. The nerve endings there could be so temperamental. On the carrier the air would be organically filtered, and he would be able to breathe better again. When they managed to find a craft of their own, he thought, falling back on a familiar hypothetical, he would have to remember to make sure the circulation system wouldn't give him a migraine.
He swallowed more of the warm bitter drink Wen Kexing had handed him.
"What's this?" he asked.
"The drink or the active compound?"
Zhou Zishu shrugged. He was too tired to care about either answer, but if Wen Kexing could be led to a topic he found interesting then the journey would go more smoothly.
Wen Kexing fell into explaining—the merchant he had found, the range of wares, the local traditions involved in its production. Possibly they were humouring each other just now—but that was fine.
He woke to the shuddering feeling of the skiff attaching itself to the side of the carrier like an insect hooking its feet onto a branch. The click of connection, the uneven pull as its docking arms folded in to secure it one by one.
"Here," Wen Kexing said. "I finished your onward travel form for you. Sign."
Zhou Zishu scanned through the document displayed on the tablet Wen Kexing had handed him. It was an annoyingly correct piece of fiction. He tapped his code in, first on the tablet and then on his personal unit. Everything came up green.
"We didn't even fuck in the bathroom," Wen Kexing said sadly. He yawned, his jaw cracking. "Well—next time."
The carrier was sparse, a low-end long haul option. People queued in the orange-panelled arrival area for cafeteria passes, for locker and sleeping pod assignments. The hull juddered briefly as the skiff detached itself, carrying arriving passengers back towards the station.
"If you had just let me buy us passage on something a little more refined," Wen Kexing began, looking around them.
Zhou Zishu stood on his foot, largely as a matter of principle.
He accepted passcodes and the transfer of a floor map, and nodded his way through a litany of instructions and prohibitions. The cafeteria pass was a physical tab in the same bright orange as the wall panels. Zhou Zishu's incipient migraine throbbed, shearing away a strip of his vision. But the air was already better. He wanted to find the hydroponics plant which was certainly integrated into the filtration system and lie down among green leaves until he was thrown out.
The ship's engines were beginning to spin up, the hum of them right on the edge of Zhou Zishu's range of hearing.
"Food before the gate entry or after?" Wen Kexing asked.
"After," Zhou Zishu said.
The pods were single-person, but Wen Kexing crawled in with Zhou Zishu anyway when the staff were directing their attention elsewhere.
"How is it?" he asked. Touched the back of his hand to Zhou Zishu's forehead. "Do you need to take the mask off?"
They were pressed together, Wen Kexing propped up on one elbow above Zhou Zishu.
"I need some space," Zhou Zishu said.
"You need to take your meds—"
"Sure."
Zhou Zishu closed his eyes. Wen Kexing patted him down with a remarkable lack of lascivious intent, found the right pocket, the pouch of medical supplies. He pressed two soluble tabs onto Zhou Zishu's tongue, his fingers lingering there in Zhou Zishu's mouth.
Zhou Zishu's muscles loosened slowly. The interface points between materials lost the cracking tension that had built up in them. The taste of Wen Kexing's skin relieved him of the artificial sweetness of the tabs.
It would feel good to strip off all his masking—the layer pulled over his face, the fleshy gloves that made his hands look human. But they were going to get up again in just a little while, and making sure he looked right would be a nightmare in this tight space.
Speakers chimed. A standard announcement. Gate entry in thirty.
"Time to kill," Wen Kexing said. "How about it, A-Xu?"
Although Zhou Zishu's pain had eased, the aura of the migraine remained. Parts of Wen Kexing's face didn't seem to exist—which was funny, when in reality it was Zhou Zishu's features that were—
Never mind.
"You wish," he said.
"But A-Xu—"
"Give me a stim and I'll think about it," Zhou Zishu said, because he knew Wen Kexing wouldn't, not even for sex. He got so fussy when it was a question of following Wu Xi's recommendations.
Wen Kexing settled over him with a sigh, tucking his head in against Zhou Zishu's neck.
"Don't be like that," he said.
Zhou Zishu didn't even really want to take a stim. Alcohol sounded better. Being slow and heavy and unable to reach his full processing capacity would feel better than the alert and jittering sensation of stims fucking up his nerves.
Announcements counted down their approach to the gate.
Finally, the nausea of transition rolled through them, marking the shift to gate space. It was strange in its familiarity. Zhou Zishu had cut a lot of things out of himself, and brutally inserted several others, but despite the many erratic tendencies of his body feeling was often still feeling, and he had known this one intimately for a very long time.
Wen Kexing made a noise of mild distaste.
Slowly, the ship engines quieted. The carrier would hold a steady course all the way to the other side of the gate—some weeks away.
They could not, now, be easily touched by any outside force—short, of course, of one of the gates being destroyed. That was an easier thing to do, on a technical level, than people generally bothered to consider—but it was politically difficult at best.
Zhou Zishu had never taken down a gate with ships still inside it, but it had been on the table several times. He would have.
He shoved at Wen Kexing until Wen Kexing moved enough for him to release the seal on the sleeping pod, and then shoved him unceremoniously out of it altogether. For a moment, he thought about shutting the pod again—locking it, and sleeping off his migraine in peace, and not bothering with food.
Wen Kexing was holding out a hand to him, expectant. He was always so annoying if he thought Zhou Zishu wasn't looking after himself.
Zhou Zishu took his hand, let himself be pulled up. Despite the masking gloves, he could feel the too-intimate press of Wen Kexing's fingers against the heel of his palm and the inside of his wrist clearly.
In the cafeteria, they collected trays of something indeterminate and heavily spiced, not mouth-burning but unexpectedly rich. It tasted good, and made Zhou Zishu feel mildly queasy, sitting heavily in his temperamental stomach.
Wen Kexing slipped away, leaving Zhou Zishu to experiment with eating his food in tiny bird-peck pieces. His thoughts were still too fast. They needed to be sharper or duller, after all.
People sat at tables and benches, talking or focusing intently on their food. The space seemed to suppress sound, leaving none of the white noise clatter that a station food court might have—only a low murmuring—it made Zhou Zishu feel even more underwater than the blue-green lenses of the glasses he was using to dull the light until his migraine passed already did. If the ship's gravity failed, the effect would be complete.
Wen Kexing slid quietly back into the seat beside him, pushed a cup towards him.
"More mystery drinks?"
"For your stomach," Wen Kexing told him.
Not alcohol, then. He sipped it—something herbal. It made the food taste worse and his stomach feel marginally better.
The balancing act pissed him off sometimes. Oh, yes—freedom to go new places and try new things—freedom, also, to experience all the ways in which his body had been made to resist newness. To feel that a meal should be the same nutrient-balanced sludge every time, that this hour was for maintenance and these hours were for training. The rigidity had, a long time ago, seemed worth it, in exchange for strength.
"I want baijiu," he said.
"Your head's alright?"
"Sure."
"You can have—well—they call it beer. I'd have to ask what it's actually made with."
"I don't care what it's made with," Zhou Zishu said, "so long as it contains alcohol. Lao Wen, are you my mother? My medic?"
"I'm trying," Wen Kexing said, "to keep you alive until we can find your medic. Please, A-Xu—"
Zhou Zishu didn't know how to answer that. He had suddenly lost his taste for cruelty.
The lights had dimmed to mark the night cycle, and Zhou Zishu's nervous system felt like an electrical fire. The organic and inorganic parts of him, rather than struggling to reject each other, were united in sensation.
He shook, curled in on himself as much as the limited space of the pod would allow. He felt ragged all over, frayed and sparking.
The pod cracked quietly open.
"Fuck off," Zhou Zishu said.
"I can't possibly sleep alone," Wen Kexing said. "Don't shut me out, A-Xu. I'm bereft—"
He pushed Zhou Zishu unceremoniously over to lie against the far side of the pod, slid himself in and sealed it, once again, shut.
"I'll change the code," Zhou Zishu said, "since you managed to pick this one up."
"Or you could let me comfort you," Wen Kexing said. "And you could comfort me. My husband treats me cruelly."
"Divorce him," Zhou Zishu said. He couldn't manage to open his eyes to look at Wen Kexing. Even with his eyes closed and the lights dimmed, everything was temporarily too bright.
Wen Kexing moulded his body to Zhou Zishu's. He was dressed in thin trousers and some kind of light tunic, none of it doing anything to conceal the lines of his body, the way they felt. Where he was soft, where he was hard.
His hands reached for Zhou Zishu's, peeling away the masking gloves, relieving him of their tight pressure. He touched Zhou Zishu with a gentleness which was always surprising. Stroked his fingertips over the sensitive surfaces of Zhou Zishu's real hands—the pale mesh of them, which showed hints of their workings below.
Nothing organic remained below his elbows, but the casing of his hands was packed with a now often inconvenient number of receptors. It had been useful when it was easy to control, but now it was erratic.
All the same, Wen Kexing touched him and his nerves settled. He focused on Wen Kexing's skin—on the texture, and also on the qualities which it was difficult to define in human sensory terms. He didn't taste the traces of soap on Wen Kexing's fingers, but it was closer to taste than touch. An awareness of compounds, the analysis flowing under the surface of his mind and feeding him laurel soap, good quality.
He lay on his side with Wen Kexing pressed to his back. Wen Kexing hooked his chin over Zhou Zishu's shoulder, wrapped him in a warm embrace.
The pain in Zhou Zishu had a tidal flow, circulating through him. Like the tidal flow of many planets, it was regular but disconnected from day and night, coming at intervals which were slightly shorter than one standard cycle. With the pain having risen early in this ship's night cycle, he might be able to find some sleep towards its tail end, before the lights brightened and people began to make more noise in the halls.
"It's alright, A-Xu," Wen Kexing said. "I'm here, aren't I?"
When Zhou Zishu awoke, he was alone. Announcements with their differing chimes rattled inside his skull. Remain in place—section twelve is off limits—
The pod hissed open and closed. Wen Kexing, breathless, rolled them over, fitting himself into the space further from the opening.
"Let me give you a love bite," he said. "Here, you can scratch my arms too—"
His lips were already puffy, as though he'd been kissing someone—possibly he had been kissing someone—if that was the case, Zhou Zishu would—
Wen Kexing hadn't been kissing anyone. Zhou Zishu would have been able to smell it on him. He could only smell electricity, like the aftermath of lightning or of weapon discharge. He had been biting his lips to imitate the effect of rough kisses—that was all.
"Come on, A-Xu," Wen Kexing murmured, pleading—and kissed him, sweet as anything.
What a pain in the ass he is, Zhou Zishu thought. Wen Kexing nipped at his bottom lip, sucked on it. Bowed his head to Zhou Zishu's neck. His attentions left a throbbing awareness of life in the flesh he had abused.
Wen Kexing was pulling the gloves back onto Zhou Zishu's hands for him, adjusting them so that they could be sealed properly into place—he should still be kissing me, Zhou Zishu thought. Then I could have the pleasure of shoving him off.
He let Wen Kexing do whatever he wanted—which involved fussing over Zhou Zishu's appearance, mostly. Adjusting his shirt, checking the edges of his mask. The kisses Wen Kexing stole he let pass unremarked after all.
"A-Xu," Wen Kexing said. He pressed his body closer against Zhou Zishu's. "Don't you think we really should have sex?"
It was remarkable that he could be in the mood, when his mind was clearly on the source of the persistent alerts.
Probably he was teasing. His cock was noticeable against Zhou Zishu's thigh, but he wasn't entirely hard.
"Idiot," Zhou Zishu said. He pushed Wen Kexing, finally, off him—rolled them, ending up on hands and knees over him. The top of the sleeping pod pushed down on his spine.
Wen Kexing gasped in surprise when Zhou Zishu set teeth to his throat—the gasp became a high whine, whimpering. Zhou Zishu bit harder.
"I should tear your throat out," he said, finally. "To stop you talking nonsense."
"A-Xu," Wen Kexing whispered. He was blushing.
Zhou Zishu, not feeling merciful, pinched his cheek hard.
"You really look like you've been fucked now," he said. "Happy?"
Wen Kexing swallowed.
Someone knocked sharply on the outside of the pod. Zhou Zishu sighed, and opened it up.
The security officer who had knocked stared them down impassively. "These sleeping pods are strictly single occupancy," she said. Her eyes flickered behind her glasses, tracking whatever was displayed on their inner surfaces. "Which of you is Zhou Xu?"
"Me," Zhou Zishu said.
Along the tiered rows of sleeping pods, similar checks were being carried out—physical inspection, which would be compared against the passenger manifest and any information provided by the security feeds.
"The ship didn't issue a warning," Wen Kexing said. "About the pods."
"Staff did," the officer told him. "And you are?"
"Wen Kexing," Wen Kexing said. He flicked his long fingers in the direction of the pod he had been assigned. "That's me. A-Xu, let me get you a blanket if we have to be out here, you'll freeze."
He had slid a proprietary arm around Zhou Zishu's waist, and now he squeezed it gently.
The officer's eyes flicked to his throat, to Zhou Zishu's neck.
"You can go, sirs," she said. "Pods are strictly—"
"—single occupancy, yes, yes. Officer, could I ask you what's happening?"
"Nobody is in danger," she said, instead of answering properly, which was interesting. "Excuse me."
The ship had brightened to morning light levels. Wen Kexing stretched, sighed. "A-Xu, are you going back to sleep?"
"No point," Zhou Zishu said.
They made their way to the bathing facilities, passing an unusual number of security personnel in the halls.
"I know they're still not much, but I'm going to rebook us into a cabin, if I can," Wen Kexing said, from inside the stall he had claimed. Zhou Zishu was brushing out his hair, ready to cleanse it—paused, throwing a dirty look in Wen Kexing's approximate direction.
"Good luck," he said. "I'm not paying for it."
"That's fine," Wen Kexing said. "I can't stand those pods. I'm happy to be buried together with you, but don't you think they're too coffin-like for living people?"
"They suit me fine," Zhou Zishu said. "It's like getting practice in."
"A-Xu—"
"Whatever," Zhou Zishu said.
They cleaned themselves quietly, separated by a thin partition. Zhou Zishu, pulling off all his clothes and masking, had to suppress an unexpected pang at the sight of his wasted organic flesh. The places where carbon mesh met skin had grown ugly as his condition worsened, and the skin there needed frequent applications of soothing gel. If neglected, it quickly grew puffy with inflammation.
Wen Kexing had felt Zhou Zishu up, had seen parts of his bare body—but Zhou Zishu found himself wondering, fleetingly, if arousal would be able to sustain itself between them once they were both forced to really consider how Zhou Zishu now looked.
"Let me help you dress," Wen Kexing said, once they were done.
"No thanks."
He pulled his masking back on, applied minor cosmetic patches until he was satisfied. Then clothes.
Outside the stall, Wen Kexing looked him up and down. "Very nice," he said—reached for Zhou Zishu's waist.
Zhou Zishu knocked his hand away, largely out of habit. Wen Kexing had done nothing to try and cover the bite Zhou Zishu had left on his throat.
He thought about the skiff. Wen Kexing's disappointed little performance. We didn't even fuck in the bathroom.
"There weren't any cabins," he said.
He had looked—although it would have been, would still be, a waste of money.
"I think a vacancy has come up," Wen Kexing said.
He touched his fingers to Zhou Zishu's neck, pressed down on the bruise that was growing there—not hard. A curious touch. Zhou Zishu's unreliable stomach clenched, fluttered.
They had met almost a calendar year ago in the public gardens of a station in Jiangnan, under fruit trees blooming in a confusion of seasons. It had reminded Zhou Zishu of a remote childhood which often eluded him, returning to him in fragments across the gulf of the time when he had been less than human—and so he had sat there for hours, drinking slowly and buzzing himself with stims when his awareness of the world became blurry and watching the black dome of space high above, as seen through heavy glass and five layers of shielding. And then there had been Wen Kexing, and the girl he had called his personal attendant. He had been an undeniably suspicious individual—but it was perhaps for that reason that Zhou Zishu had not taken pains to lose him. Or perhaps it was the way Wen Kexing had understood him, understood his pleasure in idleness—and later understood many other things too.
He had certainly killed as many people as Zhou Zishu, which was an obscurely comforting quality in a companion. He had presumably killed at least one person more than Zhou Zishu since they'd boarded the carrier—but that was really his business, so long as he had covered his tracks.
"My husband's health," Wen Kexing was saying now. "If there's any possibility—I need to tend to him several times a night, and it seems—"
Zhou Zishu was only required, for the moment, to play the role of the invalid—which wasn't one that required any real artistic effort. He sat slouched on one of the uncomfortable information centre benches and let the world happen around him while Wen Kexing flattered his way into the use of—yes—a very recently vacated cabin.
The previous occupant's luggage had been removed, and the bed had been stripped. The bed was only marginally wider than the pods had been, and the floor space beside it was minimal, but the bed could be folded up into one bulkhead and a table could be folded down from another.
Wen Kexing performed this operation.
"Ah, how interesting," he said. They watched as a small many-angled black box, which had been held in place inside the bulkhead by the raised edges of the table, clattered down like a die from a gaming cup. "Our friends are more noise than efficiency when it comes to investigation, I think."
He plucked the box up, inspected it.
"Would you like it, A-Xu?"
The back of Zhou Zishu's neck prickled. "No," he said. "It's not anything good. What the hell do I want with it?"
"You're very wise," Wen Kexing said. His smile reached his usually cold eyes. "You even know what it is, don't you?"
"Yes," Zhou Zishu said.
There had been a high profile theft on the station they had recently left. The item in question had been of both personal and political significance to the family who had been deprived of it. It was certainly a physical component of a multi-layered security system.
"Well, in that case," Wen Kexing said—and tightened his grip with a sudden and inhuman force.
He liked to make people forget what he was, until it was time for them to remember.
He opened his hand to reveal a compact pellet where the box had been—tossed it back onto the table, and folded it up again. His palm, although covered with old scars, was unscratched.
"I'll make the bed up," he said, "and then maybe we can make a mess of it—what do you say, A-Xu?"
They did on occasion do things that were like sex. Bodies rocking against each other in the dark. Hands grasping clothed hips. Quiet panting. But Zhou Zishu didn't know what Wen Kexing's dick looked like, Wen Kexing hadn't seen his. Wen Kexing, for all he liked to touch, for all he snuck his fingers under the hems of tops, had never put his hand inside Zhou Zishu's underwear.
Maybe, having seen other parts of Zhou Zishu, he was worried that Zhou Zishu's dick would be as much of a mess as the rest of him.
He was happy, in any case, to steal kisses—to bite and tease. To suggest.
Zhou Zishu, restless with unfamiliar feeling, wanted to wring his neck—sometimes.
"If I get into that bed, it'll be to sleep," Zhou Zishu said, although it was meant to be afternoon. "You can do whatever you want, I guess."
The image of it unfolded. His heavy body, sinking into rest. Wen Kexing rolling on top of him. The way he wouldn't have to resist. Would be free from himself.
Wen Kexing shook his head. "Let's explore a bit first, then. It'd be too dull, wandering around by myself."
Security remained heavier than it should typically be as they made their way past lounges and meeting rooms, arriving finally at the exercise centre. Zhou Zishu, looking at the very mundane machines and weight systems, felt a fleeting moment of longing for a real combat training suite. He would like, he thought, to test himself against Wen Kexing—which was impossible, anywhere they could be observed. Weakened as he was, Wen Kexing would probably have the edge anyway—but to be well, to be strong—
A message came through on both of their personal units at once—shipwide. Medical emergency, quarantine zone—all other sections remain unaffected—
Wen Kexing read with slightly raised eyebrows.
"Quarantine zone," he said. "How terrible. Do you think we'll all get sick, A-Xu?"
"Quit it," Zhou Zishu said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Do you want to work out, or are we headed somewhere else?"
"Unless I get to see you shirtless, I really don't think there's much of interest here," Wen Kexing said. "Or anywhere else, since the gardens are in the quarantine zone. Let's go back up. I wonder if anyone has noticed their mistake and dug through our room yet. Do you think we've given them enough time?"
Zhou Zishu shrugged.
They went to the cafeteria just in case, where Wen Kexing purchased a pile of snacks, and to the medical dispensary, where Wen Kexing cajoled Zhou Zishu into presenting his prescription information. The more serious drugs, designed to manage his particular physiology and his particular condition, had been couriered to them by Wu Xi at the last station, but Wu Xi had less belief in the importance of short term comfort than Wen Kexing seemed to. Zhou Zishu, for that matter, had less belief in the importance of short term comfort than Wen Kexing seemed to.
The information centre, when they passed it, had grown crowded. Zhou Zishu didn't envy the staff their jobs in the slightest.
They collected their luggage, finally, from their lockers. In the cabin, the pellet which had been a box was gone from inside the fold-up table.
"Good," Wen Kexing said. "That should do, then. Let's settle in until dinner."
The journey dragged. The atmosphere was bad in the public areas, full of uncertainty. Information filtered out in bits and pieces, pulled out of shape. A man was dead—it was a contagious disease, hence the quarantine—no, there had been an energy weapon discharge—no, there had been an energy weapon discharge but he'd been the one using the gun—his death had been something else—
If they had really wanted to sell the disease story, Zhou Zishu thought, they should have been more cautious about letting Wen Kexing hire the dead man's cabin—but then, he must have been unknown to the other passengers, as nobody seemed to have any particular connection to him, and many people seemed to think that he must have been a crew member.
The authorities would have a fine time trying to take formal statements once they arrived, after everyone had had weeks in which to confuse their stories. Security had presumably taken statements of their own from anyone they considered suspicious—but as neither Wen Kexing or himself had made that list, Zhou Zishu felt comfortable in his scepticism regarding their efforts.
Wen Kexing, lingering with Zhou Zishu on the margins of this slow-moving drama, was embracing the role of the doting spouse with rather too much enthusiasm. Zhou Zishu was meant, it seemed, to want for nothing.
"You're overacting," Zhou Zishu said, murmuring the words against Wen Kexing's neck as he was pulled into an embrace in a not-quite-obscured corner of the main lounge. "Wife Wen, you don't need—"
"It's not an act," Wen Kexing protested. He bent his head, kissed Zhou Zishu's cheek. "A-Xu, I want you all the time. I have to steal what I can."
"You'll give me a rash," Zhou Zishu said. "Clinging like a poisonous vine."
He tipped his head back against the wall Wen Kexing had pressed him to. Wen Kexing kissed his jaw, his throat. People could see them, if they looked. Someone's attention flitted to them, and was quickly averted. It was such a transparent effort to make the pair of them continue to seem uninteresting to everyone on board. Just an overly affectionate couple, acting like teenagers.
He put his hand in Wen Kexing's hair—felt his healthy unbroken scalp, his warm blood. The faint seam that ran between his parietal bones, maintained curiously clearly although Wen Kexing was not young—perhaps, in truth, a sign of some old intrusion.
"A-Xu," Wen Kexing murmured, encouraging. His hands were wandering lower, moving to cup Zhou Zishu's ass.
Zhou Zishu tightened his grip, pulled Wen Kexing away from his neck. Wen Kexing blinked dazedly up at him—he seemed surprised, as though he had forgotten why he had started this.
"My wife takes liberties," Zhou Zishu said. He slid his hand down to touch Wen Kexing's face, put his thumb for a moment to Wen Kexing's full lower lip—and then took hold of his chin—not harshly, but with a firm pressure.
They looked at each other—
Wen Kexing began, eventually, to blush.
Zhou Zishu laughed—released him. "So you remember how to blush today as well," he said—and, because people might after all be watching, kissed Wen Kexing softly on the mouth, before twisting out of his hold and going to find a drink.
Some people noticed him go. Some people didn't. It took almost more effort to allow his presence to be neutral than it did to conceal it, the latter habit so long ingrained as to approach reflex—but it was interesting, too, to move across the surface of the water and leave small ripples in his wake.
Days and nights. Zhou Zishu was careful, as a rule, to remain secluded while his pain was at its peak. He reshaped his days on the carrier around it, declaring his need for a nap or a lie-in or an early night, withdrawing from any casual company he might have in good time. But while there was a predictable rhythm to the worst of it, any number of things could trigger smaller episodes.
He hunched over his breakfast, gritting his teeth. It had felt like a good idea to eat in the cafeteria, although they often took their meals in their cabin—he grew tired of closed in spaces easily when it wasn't time for him to rest, wanting to see people existing, hear gossip—
Wen Kexing rubbed his back, light slow circles.
"No," he was saying, to someone who had approached. "He has a chronic condition. It isn't anything like that." His voice was cold—not just cold in the subtle way it usually was when directed at people he didn't know, but overtly hostile.
"Leave it, Lao Wen," Zhou Zishu mumbled.
"Oh, A-Xu—sorry, sorry." An apologetic pat. His voice had lost its cruelty. That was good. He shouldn't go around sounding like a killer on a ship full of jumpy security staff and worried passengers.
Zhou Zishu was dizzy with pain. The edges of his vision glittered like crushed glass.
"I didn't mean," someone said. "I just thought—if you gentlemen needed anything—"
"No," Wen Kexing said, cutting once again. "A-Xu, let's get you back to the cabin."
"No need," Zhou Zishu said. He compacted his awareness of his pain, shoved it down into a corner of himself. It was still there, he would have to feel it eventually. But he could eat breakfast like a real person. Straighten himself up and put on a smile and carefully readjust his systems until his hands didn't shake as he picked up his utensil. He couldn't get rid of the queasiness he felt at the too-clear taste and texture of his food, but he could hold it below the surface and throw up in a bathroom later.
The man who had come over to them, seemingly oblivious to Wen Kexing's air of danger, sat down at their table, rather distractedly. He looked a little too well-groomed for the cheaper pods of this carrier, so presumably he was one of their neighbours. He might be from a comfortable merchant family; he might be a prospective scholar from a moderate amount of money, deciding to go out on a tour to see the sights—
A face presented itself to Zhou Zishu at that thought, unwanted in its clarity. Sometimes a young man might choose to see the universe. Sometimes a young man might think he was being sent out to see the universe when in fact he was being sent away from the reality of it.
But while this young man seemed ineffectually eager to help, he otherwise bore little resemblance to Jiuxiao—or to the Zhang boy, the one Gu Xiang had whisked away on some half-formulated mission.
"My name is Cao Weining," the young man said. "It's my honour to make your acquaintances—?"
"Zhou Xu," Zhou Zishu said. "And this ungracious one here is Wen Kexing."
"I haven't seen you before," Wen Kexing said—ungraciously.
"Ah." Cao Weining's cheeks flushed. "Well—you wouldn't have. I was—there was a bit of a misunderstanding."
"Come," Zhou Zishu said. "Bring some food over and tell us about it."
Cao Weining lit up—almost bounced away.
"Really, A-Xu?" Wen Kexing murmured.
"Why not? Don't you want a little entertainment?"
"Your pain—"
"Stop fussing, Lao Wen. Honestly. Am I dead already or aren't I?"
Wen Kexing shook his head—he looked, for a fluttering moment, truly frustrated—and then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were clear.
Cao Weining returned with a laden tray. He seemed to have accurately identified everything that was worth eating and avoided all the culinary pitfalls on offer—so at least on one point his judgement might be relied upon.
"I can't talk about most of it, I'm afraid," he said. "But they did, um—think I had something to do with the incident. You know."
"Uhhuh," Zhou Zishu said, in a neutral to encouraging tone. He picked at the kelp salad in his bowl. It was almost certainly objectively good, but his defective senses were taking the faint meaty flavour of it and telling him that the liquid that oozed across his tongue was something like blood. He wasn't sure he wanted to try the accompanying cured fish after all, although he'd liked it yesterday.
He swallowed the kelp heavily, and took a small piece of the fish anyway.
"It was rather a shock, to be honest," Cao Weining said. "I was looking for him, you see—he had something of mine. It's—a little bit embarrassing, actually."
Wen Kexing's mood had shifted interestingly. "Something of yours?"
"Ah—well, I'd lost my cafeteria pass and one or two other things, you know—and—"
"He was a pickpocket?" Wen Kexing asked. He was leaning his chin on his palm, now. "A-Xu, don't keep eating if you can't stomach it."
"Yes," Cao Weining said. He threw a quick glance at Zhou Zishu which might have been sympathetic. "Oh, you should try some fruit instead. That looks heavy for breakfast. Here, I recommend—"
"I need these nutrients," Zhou Zishu said, a little sulkily. "For my health. Which is, as you've seen, bad."
Cao Weining frowned to himself. "I know some very good doctors," he said.
Zhou Zishu coughed—took the cup of water which Wen Kexing pushed towards him and tried to wash the offending food down his throat.
"I don't think that's necessary," he said. "I may be dying, but I have a doctor already, and he's territorial."
Cao Weining's gaze moved back and forth between the two of them, as though trying to work out if Wen Kexing was the doctor in question—which was, admittedly, funny.
Wen Kexing laid his hand over Zhou Zishu's on the table. "I'm making sure my husband gets the best of care," he said.
"Of course," Cao Weining exclaimed, understanding finding him. "I can see you're very much in love. May I ask how you met?"
Zhou Zishu tried not to grit his teeth. He wanted to push the accusation of love away, but he had allowed their supposed relationship status to become a matter of record already.
Zhou Zishu was adept at throwing up. He could do it cleanly and quietly and rinse his mouth out and be done, from start to finish, in no more time than it would take a person to piss. He could do it dispassionately. Make sure his hair was pinned out of the way, bend over a toilet or a bucket or a sewer hole. Nothing on his clothes. It was a useful skill for someone who routinely needed to purge toxins or other incompatible substances from his system. It had also, for a long time, been one of the most satisfying sensations he had known.
Today, he was desperate to do it. His stomach was cramping horribly, trying to reject the morning's food, and the rest of his body had just—forgotten a step, somewhere along the way. The intuitive became alien to him.
"It's alright, A-Xu," Wen Kexing said. He had slipped into the washroom with Zhou Zishu, and now he crouched there with him, stroking his hair.
Zhou Zishu's mouth felt slimy. The white walls of the cubicle stretched up around them, featurelessly glossy, giving a free-floating impression to the moment, like a dream. Their clothes reflected as blurry patches of colour.
It took a long time. Waves and waves of nausea. It was choking and heaving and it filled his nose. His eyes ran.
Wen Kexing wiped his face for him, gave him water and then dental paste and then water again. Zhou Zishu was too tired to be an asshole about it. He had set out to die, when he left his internal security position. He had resigned himself to it as his due, and then he had been coaxed towards hope—
Sometimes he felt sure that he would manage to die before they made it to the facility Wu Xi had specified. It was so close in moments like this. And maybe it would be alright for him to grow still and cold against Wen Kexing's warm body—but not if, not if—
"If I die," he said. His voice sounded ragged, awful. "Lao Wen, if I die—"
Wen Kexing pulled him into his arms. They sat on the floor of the washroom. Even through the bile in his nose, the smell of the antiseptic that the room was sprayed with after every use was strong. The cleanliness was oppressive. It made him feel dirtier, more aware of how precarious and fragile his body's existence was.
"Never mind," he said, at last. Sighed.
Wen Kexing was still stroking his hair.
"That Cao Weining is very clever, in his way," he said. "To recognise our sincere affection. Of course, I'd—"
"Don't be an asshole," Zhou Zishu told him. He just—wasn't in the mood for Wen Kexing's extravagance, his big words about what they supposedly were.
Wen Kexing swallowed, his throat clicking.
"A-Xu," he whispered. "I don't like many people at all. I found you less than a year ago, so could you not—"
Zhou Zishu curled his fingers in the front of Wen Kexing's lovely draped top. He was always dressed so well. It was awful, how good he looked. How he picked out fabrics that would travel well, how he kept everything he owned so neat most of the time until he was ready to casually destroy it. It was awful how frozen he seemed, and how he could hold Zhou Zishu close and warm him all the same.
Wen Kexing helped him to his feet. He felt, at least, better now. The pain and nausea had passed.
There were a lot of things he very nearly wanted to say.
"Don't die," Wen Kexing said. "Other people can die—but not you—"
He pressed a kiss to the corner of Zhou Zishu's mouth, as though he hadn't just watched Zhou Zishu vomiting messily into a toilet.
"That's disgusting," Zhou Zishu said.
Wen Kexing hummed thoughtfully, and kissed him more squarely on the mouth. Pulling back, he licked his lips. "Not really," he said. "My A-Xu is always a pleasure to kiss."
The washroom lock system pinged a warning. They had been inside for long enough that it would, shortly, send an alert to warn of a possible medical emergency—
Which was, yes—kind of funny.
"Do you think I killed him, A-Xu?" Wen Kexing whispered.
They were pressed together in bed, facing each other, Wen Kexing's arm wrapped in a now familiar way around Zhou Zishu's waist.
"Do I look like I even care?" Zhou Zishu asked.
Wen Kexing's hair, which reached half way down his back, had spilled across his shoulder, and Zhou Zishu could discretely bury his face in it. It smelled faintly of citrus from the conditioning treatment Wen Kexing liked, and of living person, which was funny, given that hair was composed of cells which were biochemically dead.
"I only wanted your professional opinion," Wen Kexing said. "Not a moral verdict."
Zhou Zishu thought about it.
"I didn't see the scene," he said. "Hard to tell. Probably not."
"Oh—really?"
"I did think so at first," Zhou Zishu said. He yawned. "You're happy he's dead."
"Of course—I got a lovely cabin out of it, and I get to keep you in my arms without being scolded about single occupancy pods."
"Sure," Zhou Zishu said.
Wen Kexing laughed softly.
"You're right," he said, as if sharing a profound secret. "I didn't kill him. I just watched it happen. People squabble over the smallest things."
"Like keys."
"Mm. Yes." Wen Kexing squeezed Zhou Zishu's waist, pulling him closer. "A-Xu—won't you let me fuck you? I'd make it so good."
"Shouldn't it be the other way around?"
"Now you're just being difficult—"
He cupped the back of Zhou Zishu's head, guided him up into a kiss. Strands of his hair caught briefly between their mouths—were brushed away.
Zhou Zishu could just let it happen. Wen Kexing wanted him in a physical way at least—wanted him for now, at least—and even if he proved to be a less skilled lover than he kept implying Zhou Zishu probably wouldn't mind. He would be warm. He would blanket Zhou Zishu, press him down into the mattress and hold him in place.
There wasn't long, now, until they would arrive at the next station. They would slip away there. Cao Weining would be detained again, or he wouldn't be. The real culprit, probably, would also slip away—would carry the ruined piece of key to whoever had paid for it, or would go to ground fearing the consequences of their partial failure. Zhou Zishu would die trying to reach his chance for healing, or he wouldn't—
"Don't mess around," he said.
"I'm not," Wen Kexing said.
"If I die, won't that—" He trailed off. Wen Kexing kissed him again, peculiarly soft and sweet.
"If I die," he tried again, "won't that be a loss for you—"
"It will destroy me," Wen Kexing said. He kissed Zhou Zishu again. His mouth was harsh and trembling. He bit down on Zhou Zishu's lip, and then on his neck—not playfully, but as though he might tear a chunk of flesh away, swallow it greedily.
He could have it if he wanted it. What would one more synthetic patch job be, really?
He was bleeding into Wen Kexing's mouth—not overwhelmingly, not from his carotid artery, but from close enough that there was a sense of tantalising danger. He had to try actively not to gasp, to remain steady. It was his turn to hold Wen Kexing close.
Their next kiss was bloody. Zhou Zishu, who had been nauseously tasting blood in everything for the last few days, found that the real thing wasn't so bad.
"Not that," he said, when Wen Kexing reached for the fastenings of his shirt—but he let Wen Kexing open the front of his trousers, pull his dick out. He watched, dazed, as Wen Kexing moved down his body—arranged him on his back on the bed—closed his often-vicious mouth around Zhou Zishu's dick.
His nervous system burned—a mostly-pleasant fire licking at his limbs from the inside. There was that frayed-wire feeling again. His hips were trying to twitch, but Wen Kexing had grasped them firmly, keeping them still.
Wen Kexing sucked his dick like he was desperate for it, as frantic in giving Zhou Zishu pleasure as he had been in claiming his blood. Zhou Zishu, shivering and covering his mouth with the back of his hand, was suddenly acutely aware that his come was probably going to taste awful. But his precome also presumably tasted awful, and Wen Kexing was still there, moaning quietly, clinging to him.
He was going to come soon, wasn't he—the feeling was rising in him quickly, tightening around his inner workings. It hurt, made him feel the places where flesh wasn't, where the integration of technology was imperfect—but it didn't hurt enough to stop the rolling crest of his orgasm.
Wen Kexing swallowed around him, kept swallowing until there was nothing left—until Zhou Zishu, already hypersensitive before he'd gotten off, shoved at him.
He lay his head against Zhou Zishu's hip. He was gasping a little, as though trying to catch his breath—Zhou Zishu only realised some little while later that what he was hearing was Wen Kexing trying very hard not to cry.
"I'm not going to die, you idiot," Zhou Zishu mumbled.
"Of course you aren't," Wen Kexing said, only a little wetly.
He crawled up the bed—kissed Zhou Zishu along his jaw, scattered kisses across his face. Even though he was damp-eyed, his cock was full, brushing against Zhou Zishu's own as he moved. For all he'd asked and asked to fuck Zhou Zishu, he seemed to be too shaky to think about it now, only grinding himself against Zhou Zishu and clinging and whimpering.
He was really too pathetic. Zhou Zishu wanted him. He hadn't had sex with anyone else in a long time, too preoccupied with death. He wasn't sure how his body would deal with penetration. He didn't really—do that. Hadn't really done that. His insides were such a mess that he wasn't entirely sure he could do it right, get it to feel nice—
But that was a question of sex. He thought he might like taking Wen Kexing inside himself whether he got off on it or not. It would be like consuming him, just a bit.
"Do you want to fuck or not?" he asked. "If you're just messing around, you can go and sleep in a lounge—"
"I'm not," Wen Kexing said urgently. "I keep telling you I'm not—how many times do I have to say it before you'll believe that I'm sincere in wanting you? I sucked your cock, A-Xu—I liked it—I never want to do that. I like you so much."
Zhou Zishu closed his eyes. His heart hurt in a way which he thought had little to do with the way his body was failing.
"Oh," he said. He took a shuddering breath.
They weren't going to manage to fuck the way Wen Kexing kept asking for. But Zhou Zishu got Wen Kexing's dick out, and held it in his hand. It was big and heavy and dark. Wen Kexing had leaked precome all over himself. He whimpered when Zhou Zishu squeezed him gently, and began to cling again as Zhou Zishu stroked him.
"So smooth, Lao Wen," Zhou Zishu said, and kissed Wen Kexing at his hairline to soothe him.
Wen Kexing didn't even try to protest, to point out his usual level of skill. He was tense and urgent, and when he came it was in hard messy spurts. Zhou Zishu felt the warmth of it spilling across his fleshless erratic fingers and imagined it happening inside him. The pulsing of it. He felt as warm behind his navel as if it were really happening.
"I want to buy a ship," Zhou Zishu said. He leaned his dizzy head against Wen Kexing's shoulder.
They hadn't even boarded the port skiff yet, and he already felt sick. The skiff they were being put on was an ordinary one; the other, carrying people to be questioned by local authorities in more depth, had already departed. It would have been a quicker and quieter journey, and Zhou Zishu could have bullshitted his way through routine questioning. Cao Weining wasn't in the group of people waiting here, but Zhou Zishu suspected that he knew enough people who were someone that he'd probably be fine.
"You couldn't afford a cabin, but you want to buy a ship?" Wen Kexing asked.
"I didn't want to pay for a cabin," Zhou Zishu said. "I want to pay for a ship. It'll be faster."
"How will you live without gossip, hm?"
"I'll sleep better knowing you aren't getting into trouble—"
"A-Xu," Wen Kexing said, very seriously. "I never get in trouble."
"Whatever," Zhou Zishu said. "Wake me up when it's time to board."
He didn't really sleep—but he did get to slowly relax his body against Wen Kexing, and hide his face away against Wen Kexing's throat.
"Anything my husband wants," Wen Kexing said—
And left Zhou Zishu feeling warm, slowly shifting the idea of a ship from a fantasy he had whenever they boarded a vessel he didn't like into a tentative future reality.