#wangtang

Notes:

This fic is inspired by Chapter 60 of the novel (hence the title), and also by how pitiful Tang Fan looked in episode 9 getting lost between those tents ... If you would like a refresher of where the story is at this point, I actually have a rewatch-thread for the Liaodong-Arc over on twitter <3 Look at the end of the fic for research notes

“I’m still worried about Sui Zhou. He can die at any time now,” Tang Fan says the second he drops down into the seat beside Wang Zhi. He must have run into Jia Kui on his way into Wang Zhi’s tent— Wang Zhi didn’t even have time to set down his gaiwan. At least there is no reason to suspect that Tang Fan might have been eavesdropping, no matter how well-timed his entrance was. It looks like Tang Fan didn’t even have the patience to cover himself with more than his traveling coat, which is far too thin for the night winds of Liaodong. He looks so pitiful, hugging himself against the creeping cold. A few hours ago, when Wang Zhi helped him dismount from that horse, he was so stiff that he could hardly lift his arms, but now he is vibrating with worry and stifled energy.

Wang Zhi’s relief at Tang Fan’s arrival has melted away most of his brittle, heavy frustration at his inability to find those damned horses, like warm rain washing away the last dregs of dirty snow in spring. He had felt so helpless for the last few days, so useless, as if some part of his brain was missing, or as if something was swimming in front of his eyes, a dark spot obscuring the solution to this confounding mystery. The spot is still there, but he doesn’t mind it now that Tang Fan is here. He doesn’t need to see in the dark if there is a fire-stick hanging on his belt.

But now that the solution is within his reach, he suddenly feels so tired it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. His body has finally released the weight of impending failure, so now there is space to let in the exhaustion that he has shoved to the side again and again and again.

He is weak, and he knows it. But he also knows that Tang Fan doesn’t know. Tang Fan looks at him and sees a solution to his own problems. This is what they are, in the end — tools they each need to survive. Tang Fan, a lock pick for any door Wang Zhi can’t kick in; Wang Zhi, a knife to cut through any knot Tang Fan can’t undo.

Wang Zhi looks at the gaiwan. Tea gets cold so fast in Liaodong. He knows that he could just have Ding Rong boil new water for him whenever he wants, but he has already dismissed him for tonight, and by now he has gotten used to the stale tang. He doesn’t need the comfort of warm tea; he just needs it to clear his head.

He puts the cup down on the table between him and Tang Fan.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ve got someone to see to that. Your priority is the horse theft case.”

Of course, that’s not enough for Tang Fan. He is the kind of person who can’t believe that anything is happening if he isn’t there to see it; at least not when it concerns his growing circle of hangers-on.

“But I’m worried about Sui Zhou now and I can’t set my mind on solving the case.”

He is leaning forward, hugging himself tighter. Too bad, Wang Zhi thinks. The horse market has to open. The case has to be solved. Neither of them has a choice.

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

Tang Fan looks at him for a moment, then he stands up and storms off as fast as he stormed in — only to turn around again at the entrance of the tent. He comes back, arms down, hands clenched into fists, a look of resolve on his face.

“Let’s solve it now!” he says “Tell me about the case, come on!”

Wang Zhi feels a stabbing pain behind his eyes. It’s not as if it makes a difference if the case gets solved now or in six hours. Tang Fan has to know that, right?

Yes, Sui Zhou could die between now and then — but how long has it been since he was thrown into prison in Ji’an? Tang Fan has gone there, come back, found horses, come to Liaodong… If Sui Zhou survived for all this time, he will survive for six more hours.

And if he doesn’t, Wang Zhi will take the blame. As well as the miserable life of every single scumbag official involved.

He might make it fast, he thinks. A mercy, but he owes those sorry bastards that much. After all, if nothing had happened in Ji’an, Tang Fan would not have come to Liaodong.

Tang Fan wouldn’t be standing in his tent in the middle of a cold and windy night, looking at him with such grim determination that even Wang Zhi can’t hold his gaze. He sighs and stands up.

“You were on the road for two days,” he says, turning away and walking towards his desk. “You must be tired. Go back to get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He does wonder, really, where Tang Fan’s limit is. Even if he can stay up for days on end, driven by that obsessive need for answers, for solutions, everybody has their limit. And Tang Fan is a weak scholar, a willow branch in the storm, blue-lipped and red-eyed.

“But Sui Zhou is in grave danger now! How can I sleep?”

He looks up at him — Wang Zhi has stepped onto the raised platform — with such desperation in his eyes as if only Wang Zhi’s words are keeping him from immediately rescuing Sui Zhou, not miles of road and days of travel. Tang Fan is not made for this kind of problem — a problem that cannot be solved in one desperate charge, a problem that needs more than a clear pair of eyes and a clever tongue.

“Things can only be solved one by one. It’s pointless to be anxious,” he says. It’s the truth, and he has to believe that Tang Fan knows it. But of course it feels cruel, when everything Tang Fan can think of is his friend who is in danger in a place so impossibly far away. “Now that you’re in Liaodong, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He sits down on his desk, intentionally not looking up at Tang Fan’s pleading face. He doesn’t have to review the documents Ding Rong has prepared right now, of course he doesn’t; but he also doesn’t want to continue this discussion, and the excuse of “I have work to do” seems more acceptable than “I want to go to sleep, too.”

It takes Tang Fan a few moments, but finally he says softly: “Okay. I get it.”

Wang Zhi doesn’t even want to guess what he means by “it”. When he storms off this time, he really leaves.

Wang Zhi can’t stop himself from looking after him. He lets out a huff; if from annoyance, frustration, or relief, he doesn’t know.

He is so tired, but even after Tang Fan is gone, he can’t make himself get up and leave his desk. He can’t work, either. He is sitting there, staring at words hardly legible in the light of burned-down candles, and he thinks about the cold wind and Tang Fan’s pale face.

Eventually, he stands up. But he doesn’t walk behind the wall dividing the tent into work and private spaces, where he knows that his bed is waiting, thick blankets and furs on a warm kang, with thick curtains all around it. Instead, he takes a small ceramic pot from a shelf and walks to the entrance of his tent, and surrenders himself to the cold winds of the Liaodong night.

Tang Fan, this weak little scholar with skin like mutton fat jade and limbs as thin as longevity noodles, has spent days riding a horse. He’s seen the wince when he had stood on his own feet again after Wang Zhi had helped him down, had seen the way he had shifted his hips and the thin line of his lips when he walked.

Wang Zhi knows what this kind of exertion does to people who are not used to it. And with how preoccupied Tang Fan is right now, he can’t imagine that he has even spared a thought about doing something about the pain he must be in.

This should be Sui Zhou’s role — making sure that Tang Fan is safe and taken care of.

But since Sui Zhou isn’t here, Wang Zhi will do what he can.

It has been only moments since Tang Fan left his tent, but when Wang Zhi finds him, he has somehow lost his already insufficient coat and is now running around between tents in nothing but his middle clothes, clutching a leather whip to his chest.

Wang Zhi really needs to save Sui Zhou. It’s extremely obvious that Tang Fan can’t be left alone without diving headfirst into disaster, and Wang Zhi simply doesn’t have the time to keep pulling him back.

Well, he can keep him on dry ground until Sui Zhou is back, at least.

He deliberately steps down hard on the gravel-covered ground so Tang Fan won’t jump when he approaches him. Tang Fan still whirls around in fright, clutching the braided whip like a shield.

Wang Zhi frowns at him. “I only looked away for a heartbeat… Where in the world is your coat?”

He can’t see him very well in the torchlight, but it seems like the blue of his lips has spread to the rest of his face. He is shivering like a newborn foal, staring at him with eyes that look gigantic in the near dark.

He is shivering too hard to answer him, so Wang Zhi lets out a displeased “Tsk” and takes off his own fur coat. Tang Fan looks like he wants to protest when Wang Zhi bridges the last distance between them and wraps the coat around his shoulders.

The cold immediately bites through his yesa, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He’d originally wanted to hand Tang Fan the ointment and be done with it, but now that he sees Tang Fan huddling into his fur coat — into the warmth his own body has left behind — it suddenly seems like a bad idea to just leave him out here. Even if he showed Tang Fan the way back to the tent he was sharing with that little girl, how would Wang Zhi be able to sleep when he was worrying about what else Tang Fan got up to in the middle of the night?

So he answers Tang Fan’s inquisitive stare with an eye roll and grabs one of his hands. Tang Fan responds by dropping the whip to the ground. His fingers feel icy and stiff against Wang Zhi’s.

Wang Zhi gives the weapon a last look before he pulls Tang Fan back towards his own tent, then he glances at Tang Fan’s face. He seems embarrassed; Wang Zhi sees that there is a little more color in his cheeks now when they pass by a lantern stand.

The guards in front of the commander’s tent try not to react when they see Wang Zhi come back. Even though he is doing his best to keep his body under control, he knows that he is shivering, and he knows that they have to wonder why his fur coat is now on the little official who had come out of nowhere earlier that day and brought two Oirats with him — as if the Three Guards and the Jurchen aren’t enough to deal with.

He has wondered about that aspect of Tang Fan’s arrival himself, of course, about why in the world those two were traveling with Tang Fan. The girl seems to be of high status, though assigning Han labels to Oirat women is always difficult. There had been a tiny, unpleasant whisper in his mind when he had first seen her, just a susurration that tickles a place he doesn’t dare to look at, but then again, that is Sui Zhou’s problem, not his.

He thinks back to the braided whip, to the embarrassed look on Tang Fan’s face, and wonders whether the pride he takes in his understanding of other people’s inner workings is completely justified.

But it doesn’t matter, so he forces the thought aside and leads Tang Fan into his tent and past the dividing wall to his own living quarters. His hand is still wrapped around Tang Fan’s reed-thin wrist when the other suddenly stops.

He looks up at Tang Fan with a frown, only to meet a similar expression.

“Why did you bring me back here?” Tang Fan asks.

Wang Zhi feels his grip on his wrist become a little firmer and feels the bones shift between his fingers. So fragile that he feels like he should put them into a velvet-lined box for safekeeping.

It takes a conscious effort to relax his hand.

“You said you can’t sleep in your tent.” It’s not really what he said, but Tang Fan still looks dazed by the cold, and Wang Zhi hopes he will let it slide. “My bed is warmer than yours, and I don’t have to worry about you running around stealing random women’s weapons.”

Oh, that was more than he wanted to say, and he immediately sees a shift on Tang Fan’s face, a slight tightening of his eyebrows. He has to be really tired if he lets nonsense like that slip.

Wang Zhi thinks fast. “Also, you can’t tell me that all those days on horseback did not leave their marks on you.” For the first time in ages, the words he finds sound insufficient to his own ears, but they’ll have to do.

To drive his point home, he shows Tang Fan the little ceramic pot he has been holding in his hand this whole time, then looks pointedly down at his thighs. The confused suspicion on Tang Fan’s face immediately switches back to that sweet sheen of embarrassment.

Wang Zhi carefully tunes his smile to keep it from showing the guilty relief he is feeling.

“You might have to walk for a while tomorrow,” he says, “and I’d rather not have to wait for you every five steps because you’re in pain.”

Tang Fan is looking away, at the floor somewhere a few feet left of Wang Zhi. He is shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he’s debating with himself.

He’s thinking too much. Wang Zhi knows what a dangerous thing Tang Fan’s mind is when it’s running wild, so he decides to grab its reins and yank it to a halt.

“Take off your pants and lie down on your back”, he says.

It has the exact effect he has hoped for. He manages not to look smug — or not too smug, he’s too tired to be sure — when Tang Fan’s head whips around and his eyes stare at him in shock.

“What?” Wang Zhi asks as if he can’t understand Tang Fan’s reaction. “This is the easiest way to make sure any wounds you have get treated properly.”

Tang Fan frowns, but he isn’t running out of his tent. A good sign. And so is the red color the tip of his ears have turned.

“You can’t just say something like that, Wang-daren…” The formal address seems to be Tang Fan’s attempt to bring some distance between the two of them, but the way his frown turns into a pout shows how toothless his little protest is.

Wang Zhi allows himself a little chuckle that might be a little less put-on than most of his laughs.

“Are you afraid I will take advantage of you, Runqing?” He makes the words drip with ridicule, picking up what Tang Fan has balked at and presenting it to him in his flat palm, like candied fruit to a skittish horse. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me,” he lies. “Or did you forget that I don’t have what it takes to taint it?”

That does the trick. He has gambled on Tang Fan still feeling awkward about Wang Zhi’s status, like most men do; and he is rewarded with a guilt-stricken look on Tang Fan’s face.

“That‘s not what I meant,” Tang Fan mutters, but he‘s not meeting Wang Zhi‘s eyes anymore. He is hugging himself again, but only with one arm, and his eyes are flickering towards the bed.

Nearly there.

“Come on now,“ Wang Zhi says on a sigh, as if he feels very much put-upon by Tang Fan‘s theatrics. “The sooner I take care of your wounds, the faster they will heal. Do you really want to suffer any longer than necessary just because you are afraid to show me your dick?”

Tang Fan still has a baleful look on his face, but he seems to finally demur. He carefully lifts the fur coat off his shoulders and drapes it over a nearby clothes stand, then he reaches for the tie in the back of his shirt, his shoulders stiff and his hands fumbling — if from exhaustion or cold, Wang Zhi can’t tell.

Wang Zhi steps in and taps Tang Fan‘s arm with the back of his hand.

“Turn around,” he says.

Tang Fan frowns at him, but he drops his hands and does as he is told.

One of the ends of the ties has slipped through the loop, turning it into a knot that can‘t just be opened with a simple pull. Wang Zhi’s fingers aren‘t as nimble as they usually are, and his eyes are straining in the dim light, but he eventually manages to undo the tight little knot and loosen the cinch around Tang Fan‘s waist.

He takes a step back afterwards, and watches as Tang Fan opens his shirt to reach the ties of his pants. They‘re less finicky and also tied in the front, so Tang Fan doesn‘t need Wang Zhi‘s help for those.

Tang Fan still seems clumsy and uncoordinated as he pulls his pants down and only then realizes he is still wearing his boots. He looks embarrassed and frustrated as he flops down on the edge of the bed, his crotch obscured by the tails of his shirt as he pulls off his boots and tosses them to the side, with his pants following right after.

Now naked from the waist down, he squeezes his thighs together in a bout of shyness and looks up at Wang Zhi.

“How exactly…?”

For a moment Wang Zhi sees his own hands cradling Tang Fan‘s blushing cheeks; he wonders whether his lips are finally warmed up again, and somewhere in the far reaches of his mind there is a voice that urges him to find out.

He shoves those thoughts into the same corner where he hid the bitter aftertaste of seeing Tang Fan clutch that whip.

Wang Zhi keeps his mind forcefully blank as he sits down on the edge of the bed and takes off his own boots.

„Put your feet on the bed, lean back and spread your legs.“

He shifts onto his knees and gives his attention to the pot of ointment he is now carefully opening. He hopes it will make Tang Fan feel less awkward while he scoots around on the bed and gets into position.

Wang Zhi looks up again when Tang Fan stops moving. Maybe he should have been prepared for the spike of warmth that runs down his back when he sees Tang Fan like this, leaning back and propped up on his elbows. He is careful to let his gaze slide down slowly, starting at Tang Fan‘s furrowed eyebrows, following the flush that has escaped his cheeks and is now flowing down over his neck to his chest, where the open panels of his shirt expose milky skin and just the shadow of light brown nipples… His position is making the skin of his stomach fold, an illusion of softness betrayed by the jut of his sharp hip bones. His pubic hair is sparse, but silky, his soft cock and balls a reddish brown that gets dark where his sack meets the plush whiteness of his ass.

Wang Zhi’s eyes finally reach his thighs, and he lets out a little hiss. He would have regretted letting go of himself so much, but right now the feeling of being right — of being absolutely justified in the excuse he found to bring Tang Fan back to his tent — is stronger than his desire to keep his face pristine.

It‘s no wonder Tang Fan has agreed to let him deal with his wounds. The long days in the saddle have obviously taken their toll. Tang Fan‘s inner thighs are covered in sores and bruises, mostly blisters in various states of healing, but also two calluses with various smaller blisters lining the raised skin.

Wang Zhi dips two fingers into the ointment and goes to work.

There is only one blister that hasn‘t opened yet, right next to the crease between Tang Fan‘s butt cheek and thigh. The edge of that blister seems a little inflamed, but when he touches it it feels soft and giving under his finger, so he assumes there is no use in opening it to let out the fluids since it likely won’t burst on its own. Tang Fan is shifting above him with every touch, soft whimpers filling Wang Zhi‘s ears. He moves from the closed blister to a burst one farther down, and Tang Fan’s hands clutch Wang Zhi’s bedding.

This one must have opened recently; the center is raw and wet, not even the thinnest membrane covering it yet. The edge of his skin where it meets the raw flesh is vaguely yellow and surrounded by circles of angry red that bleeds into a reddish-blue, a ring-shaped bruise with yellow-gray spots leading back to the creamy white of healthy skin.

There are several blisters on Tang Fan‘s thighs that look like this, some bigger, some smaller, some already covered by tender new skin, some oozing clear liquid now that Tang Fan has aggravated them by spreading his legs.

Just putting salve on these wounds won‘t be enough, Wang Zhi realizes as he sets a thick glob of ointment onto the weeping, raw skin of the first open blister. He tries to remember where Ding Rong put the box with less frequently needed medical materials as he carefully rubs the ointment into the bruised edges. He hardly notices that his other hand has found its way to the outside of Tang Fan‘s thigh, or that his thumb has started to rub soothing circles into Tang Fan’s flesh.

No matter how thin Tang Fan is, the insides of his thighs feel as soft as steamed buns. The color is similar, too, where it isn‘t inflamed or bruised. He wonders how long it will take until the skin will heal completely, and at the same time he wonders how hard he would have to squeeze to leave bruises of his own.

The small noises Tang Fan makes change depending on which part of his wounds Wang Zhi is touching. He stays as gentle as he can while he kept probing, sounding out the various notes he can strike on Tang Fan‘s flesh. Hissing intakes of air follow when his fingers cover the raw center of a burst blister with a thick layer of salve, pitiful, high-pitched whimpers accompany the gentle pressure of Wang Zhi massaging the ointment into the inflamed red circles blooming outward. When his fingers — his ring finger and pinky, mostly — brush over only slightly bruised or completely hale flesh, he sometimes draws out a little gasp, a ticklish sound, often followed by a jump in one of the lean muscles below the thin layer of fat making Tang Fan‘s thighs feel so soft that Wang Zhi can hardly ignore the voice deep in the recesses of his mind that is wondering whether they would feel as delicate against his lips as they do beneath his fingers.

He finally emerges from his reverie when he realizes that all of the open blisters he can reach are covered in ointment now. There are still the welts, which reach farther towards the back of Tang Fan’s thighs, and a few bruises that dip too far back for him to properly reach.

“Can you…” Wang Zhi starts, but notices that his voice is rough. He swallows and ignores both the heat in his face and the temptation to look up at Tang Fan’s face. “Can you pull your legs up? I need to…”

He doesn’t know how to explain. His head feels strange, filled with something that is lighter than exhaustion but still makes everything seem soft and hazy. So instead of telling Tang Fan what he needs him to do, he slides his hands, his right one still slick with the ointment, under Tang Fan’s knees and carefully moves his legs until Tang Fan understands and reaches out to replace Wang Zhi’s hands. He pulls his thighs against his belly, and Wang Zhi feels a sharp, dangerous thing in his stomach when he notices that Tang Fan is shivering again. He knows, of course, that it’s not because he is cold — his skin is warm under his hands, slightly damp with sweat, even. The new position shows Wang Zhi more of Tang Fan — his long, tender-soled feet, his skinny buttocks, the shaded crevice between, a hint of a tight furl…

That sight more than anything makes Wang Zhi feel light-headed. He doesn’t know what to call it — “hole” seems too crass, “anus” too medical, “entrance” as if he was planning to…

It’s hard to put something he can see so clearly into that corner of his mind where he has shoved everything else dangerous about Tang Fan, but he tries anyway.

He scoops out more ointment and spreads it on the blisters he couldn’t reach earlier, then he uses his thumb to spread it over the calluses. The slight trembling of Tang Fan’s thighs becomes far more noticeable, until Wang Zhi has to hold him steady with his other hand on his thigh, a little higher than the wounds, while he makes sure that every part of the calluses is properly covered. The way he is holding him makes Tang Fan’s buttock look rounder, and its soft, mostly unbruised skin looks so enticing that Wang Zhi’s grip gets a little too hard. He lets go when Tang Fan presses out a mewling “Wang Zhi!”

For a moment he feels unmoored, reeling. His eyes flicker up to Tang Fan’s face and the flush he sees there mirrors the heat he feels in his own. He quickly lowers his eyes again and completes his task as quickly as possible, leaving a little too much ointment on the last inch of callused skin before he pulls his hand away and stumbles off the bed.

“Stay like this, I just need…”

He tries to ignore the frantic beating of his heart as he looks around the sleeping area. He vaguely remembers seeing the medicine box in the trunk to the left of his bed when he had taken out new middle clothes this morning. He nearly trips on his way there, and then he fumbles with the unlocked hasp, because he doesn’t want to touch it with his still ointment-covered hand, and he doesn’t want to wipe his hand on his yesa. He knows how to get this kind of stain out of silks, of course — every Palace eunuch does, it’s part of what you need to learn to serve royalty — but even if Ding Rong packed the chalks and resins necessary to get grease stains out of silk, it’s a lengthy process that he just doesn’t have time for in the foreseeable future. So he does his best to keep his hand away from both the wood of the trunk and the silk of his clothing until he finally gets the top of the trunk open. There are several handkerchiefs in one corner, and he quickly pulls one of them out to wipe his hand, then he slips it into his sleeve. He was right about the medicine box. There is no need to take it out of the trunk, he opens it as it is. A parcel of linen lies on top of the other medical materials, and he only has to rummage for a moment to find a pair of sharp scissors to cut that linen into broad strips he can use to bandage Tang Fan’s thighs.

Wang Zhi comes back to the bed with the scissors and an ample amount of linen. From the corners of his eyes, he can see the searching expression on Tang Fan’s face, but he feels a little calmer now, a little less lost, like he can take that look without falling apart.

He still doesn’t make eye contact, to be safe.

He eyes Tang Fan’s thighs and the way the blisters are distributed across them, then he cuts strips that should be broad enough to not cut into his flesh, but still thin enough to be snug and not slip off.

The process of wrapping the bandages around Tang Fan‘s thighs feels soothing. He has to concentrate on the task, hold down one end of the linen strips against his skin with his left hand while his right hand loops the rest through the triangle made by Tang Fan‘s arms, thighs, and belly, then he has to grab the bandages with the ring and pinkie finger of his left hand while his thumb is still holding the end in place so he can pull his right hand back again. The tension has to be right, not loose enough to slip off, but not so tight that it would either hurt or dislodge anyway with Tang Fan‘s movements. It is precise work that doesn‘t require a lot of thinking, like polishing a rare vase or ironing embroidered silk. He is using the laboriously acquired and carefully honed adroitness of an experienced attendant‘s hands to bandage Tang Fan‘s wounded skin with the same care one would take to wrap priceless porcelain.

He is so absorbed by his task that he only notices Tang Fan‘s heavy breathing after he fastens the bandages around his second thigh. He also notices that Tang Fan‘s hands are shaking. His knuckles are white, the fingertips red — maybe from the effort of holding his legs up for such a long time? His arms and thighs are quaking slightly with the strain as well.

Wang Zhi sits back, his eyes moving to Tang Fan‘s feet so he won‘t accidentally look at this intriguing, dangerous place between his skinny buttocks again.

“You can put your pants back on,” he says. There is still a remnant of that floaty feeling in his head, a memory of warmth at his fingertips, but he feels calmer now. He has done what he has set out to do. Tang Fan‘s wounds are taken care of. Yes, there is still some uncertainty about what is going to happen now — he doesn‘t know if Tang Fan will want to go back to his own tent. He‘d told him earlier that his bed was warmer and that he‘d rather have him here and not worry about what kind of trouble he got into outside, but who knows if Tang Fan even remembers that… But then again, making him stay here feels far less fraught than touching his naked skin. Tang Fan has been very easy to manhandle thus far, it would be similarly easy for Wang Zhi to just put him under the covers. Wang Zhi definitely won‘t let him leave alone, because the chances that he would find his tent on his own are practically nil, and maybe the prospect of Wang Zhi having to follow him outside into the cold again after he helped him with his wounds would shame Tang Fan into staying.

It is only seconds after he told Tang Fan to put his pants on again that all of his careful ruminations on how this night is going to end prove completely premature.

Because Tang Fan makes a weird little noise in his throat, and when Wang Zhi looks up at his face he sees that he is blushing even worse than when he had first put himself on display for Wang Zhi.

“I‘m sorry,” Tang Fan whispers, and before Wang Zhi can ask what he is sorry for, he lets go of his legs and lowers his feet back onto the bed.

With the earlier angle, Wang Zhi hadn‘t been able to see much of the state of his cock. Because of the tilt of his hips, it had just been nestled against his belly, and he honestly hadn‘t been very focused on it, either. But now that Tang Fan‘s legs are back on the bed — still spread, because Wang Zhi is still sitting between them — his cock is still lying against his stomach, and while it isn‘t substantially bigger than it is in its flaccid state, his foreskin is definitely tighter now, and his red tip is leaking droplets of clear fluid onto his stomach, which is visibly moving with Tang Fan‘s heavy breaths.

Wang Zhi only notices that he has been staring when Tang Fan reaches down between his legs to hide this testament to how much he has apparently enjoyed Wang Zhi‘s touch.

“I‘m sorry,” he repeats, and this time he‘s the one who can‘t meet Wang Zhi‘s eyes when he looks at his face again. “I didn‘t mean to, it‘s just… I guess it felt really good… I mean, your hands and all that…”

He suddenly pulls his legs to his body and pushes himself up on his elbows. “It will go away in a bit, I‘ll just need something to clean up so I can put on my pants— “

Wang Zhi stops him with a hand on his knee before he can do anything so stupid as getting off the bed. The calm he had felt is gone, but this time whatever strange force replaces it doesn’t feel uncontrollable or disorienting. He feels focused, and hungry.

He feels like he did when he made Tang Fan take off his pants. It‘s a kind of anticipation that scares him, but that isn‘t frightening enough to keep him from taking what he wants when it is right there for the taking.

“Let me help you,” he says.

Tang Fan freezes in the process of sitting up and stares at him. His eyes are as black as his hair, which has come loose from his top knot at some point. Wang Zhi had noticed the loose strand earlier but hadn‘t commented on it, and now he is being rewarded with the sight of Tang Fan‘s long ponytail kissing his reddened cheek and falling down to lie against his white shoulder.

The remainder of his middle clothes has vanished into the furs of Wang Zhi’s bed, and Tang Fan is completely naked and so beautiful that Wang Zhi feels like he understands what all those salacious romance novels mean when they talk about how the hero „feels his loins stirring“. He shouldn‘t have anything to stir, not in his loins anyway, but Tang Fan seems to have a knack for achieving the impossible.

“It‘s going to go away by itself,” Tang Fan says, his voice no more than a reedy whisper. “You really don‘t have to do that, you‘ve already…” His voice trails off as if he doesn‘t know how to finish that sentence. Wang Zhi pushes Tang Fan‘s right knee to the side, then does the same to his other leg, so he is back in the position he was in when Wang Zhi started rubbing ointment into his wounds.

The little clay pot is still on the bed. Wang Zhi doesn‘t touch his bandaged thighs, but still crowds in closer to Tang Fan, until he runs out of space — then he carefully lifts Tang Fan‘s legs and puts them on his own knees. He is so close to him that the soft, flowing fabric of his yesa‘sskirt is touching Tang Fan‘s buttocks and balls. When Wang Zhi looks down at Tang Fan‘s crotch, he notices how hard his own breathing has become. He can see his brocade-covered chest rise and fall, the details of his embroidery stark against the simple linen of the bandages.

Where he had been too afraid of looking at any part of Tang Fan except for his raw thighs, now he can‘t get enough of the way his body is reacting to him. His eyes are rushing from his flushed face to the pebbled brown of his nipples to the jut of his hip bones to his hard, leaking cock to the delicate skin of the folds at the very top of his thighs. He wants to taste him, to kiss and lick and bite, to really leave his own marks — to suck bruises into his skin that linger long enough for Sui Zhou to find them when the Ji‘an issue has finally been dealt with.

But he knows that it would be too much. Tang Fan looks like he is about to fall apart as it is, and Wang Zhi knows he needs to rein in whatever has taken a hold of him, at least a little.

He retrieves the pot of ointment and opens it once again. He manages to catch Tang Fan‘s gaze and holds it while he dips his fingers into the viscous salve, and he doesn‘t miss how Tang Fan‘s lips fall open at the squelching noise when he pulls his fingers out again.

It‘s the first time Wang Zhi has ever touched a cock, but he won‘t let that stop him. He puts down the pot and squeezes his hand into a fist to spread the ointment on his palm, then he holds his breath and wraps his slicked-up hand around that slim, dark, foreign part of this brilliant, troublesome little scholar that he somehow managed to drag into his life and now even into his bed.

He hates that he can‘t look at his own hand and at Tang Fan‘s face at the same time, because when he hears a noise that sounds like a dying animal coming from Tang Fan, he looks up too late to catch that fleeting moment of his first reaction to Wang Zhi‘s touch. He still gets rewarded with a look of absolute bliss on Tang Fan‘s face. He looks as if he has lost all control over his muscles. His eyes are only half-closed, his jaw slack, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out between his open lips. Only his eyebrows have enough tension left to pull up toward the center of his forehead. A delicious line is forming there, completely different from the frown Wang Zhi has become accustomed to seeing whenever Tang Fan is angry or suspicious or lost in the depths of his unfathomable mind.

Wang Zhi made this little line appear, and for a moment he feels like it exists only for him.

Apparently he takes a little too long to admire him, because Tang Fan‘s eyes open a little wider, his lips close on a needy whimper, and Wang Zhi feels movement under his hand.

He can‘t keep the apologetic smile off his face as he returns to the task at hand — that is, Tang Fan‘s dick (literally in his hand). He rubs his thumb over the soft skin around the tip, pulls it down a little to expose the wet head just out of curiosity, then he lets go again and starts to move his slick hand up and down his shaft. His only real reference points for any of this are crude jokes and flowery allusions in spring books, but it seems pretty intuitive to him…

…at least until Tang Fan lets out a not-quite-ecstatic whine and wraps his own hand around Wang Zhi‘s. His fingers are so long that his thumb and forefinger are completely encircling his wrist. Wang Zhi looks up at Tang Fan‘s face, and Tang Fan blushes harder under his frown.

“Just… Let me show you how?”

A cold sliver of humiliation runs through the hot swell of desire in Wang Zhi‘s stomach, but strangely enough, it doesn‘t seem to cool him at all. He is perfectly aware, of course, that Tang Fan knows best how to touch his own cock, and he accepts the instruction with hardly more than a little twitch of his mouth.

Tang Fan‘s hand feels hot and sweaty around his own fingers, and it only takes a few seconds until the sting of being found wanting in anything gets replaced by the realization that this is the first time Tang Fan has touched him of his own accord.

That thought hits him with such violence that he forgets to participate in what their hands are doing, but Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to mind much. He is apparently perfectly happy to use Wang Zhi‘s hand as an aid to get to where he wants to be. Wang Zhi only snaps out of the blank space his realization has left him in when Tang Fan‘s legs move off his thighs. He is confused at first until he realizes Tang Fan is putting his feet on the bed to give himself more leverage, and then his hand is getting squeezed so hard by the bigger one covering it that he feels slightly afraid that he will accidentally crush Tang Fan‘s hot, hard dick.

Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to have any such concerns. He starts to thrust his hips up into the squelching wet cocoon of Wang Zhi‘s trapped hand. Wang Zhi‘s wrist hurts a little — something isn‘t quite right about the angle — but the pain is hardly more than a niggling itch in his mind, because what Tang Fan is doing is clearly working for him. He should have expected that Tang Fan is loud in bed, but he definitely couldn‘t have imagined how his moans and whines and yelps would seep into his skin and fill his veins with molten gold, viscous and hot and so heavy that it feels like he is about to suffocate. Something happens at the core of his body again, at that place that ought to be empty, and when Tang Fan‘s hips stop moving after an especially hard push and his moans turn into a long, high-pitched keen he feels a deep shiver run through his entire body even before he registers that some liquid other than the slippery ointment is coating his hand now.

Tang Fan stays frozen in this position for the duration of several breaths, his hand still clutching Wang Zhi‘s so hard that his knuckles stand out white from the straining red of his fist. Now that Wang Zhi has been released from whatever mania Tang Fan‘s ecstasy has plunged him into, he can appreciate the slightly absurd image Tang Fan is making at this moment. His hips are still lifted and his tiny buttocks are clenching in the effort to hold them, his face is still scrunched up in concentration, though it slowly starts to relax, and his free hand is clutching at a pillow above his head. Wang Zhi has time to look at the dark hair under his arms, his far too-visible ribs, the taut muscles of his belly, before Tang Fan finally releases the last bit of tension from his body and deflates like a paper lantern after its candle is doused.

Tang Fan closes his eyes for a moment, his face still flushed scarlet, but completely relaxed. His hand falls away from Wang Zhi‘s, and Wang Zhi lets go of his cock. He is a little surprised to see that it hasn‘t just gone completely flaccid again right after Tang Fan‘s emission, but is instead becoming gradually softer with every deep, exhausted breath Tang Fan is taking.

He takes a moment to have a closer look at the seed covering his hand. A few drops have escaped onto Tang Fan‘s stomach, but enough of the liquid has mixed with the residual ointment to give his hand a vaguely milky coating. He spreads his fingers to see the liquid draw strings between them and rubs his thumb over it to get a better feeling for the texture. It‘s fascinating to think that this liquid is the subject of so much mystical importance, the magical jing that allegedly pulls yang energy out of a man‘s body. He wonders whether he has just made Tang Fan even weaker than he already is… At some point he should ask Pei Huai about this, he thinks. The man is weird and might at some point become a liability, but he has interesting views on traditional wisdom, and since Wang Zhi has a neat little file on all of his illegal importing of Western materials (thoroughly encoded of course), he doesn’t really worry about that specific medical maniac getting any leverage on him.

He will put a few more choice bits of meat into Tang Fan’s bowl at breakfast tomorrow, anyway. Just on the off-chance.

He does think about licking his hand for a moment, but he pushes that urge away. He has gone far further tonight than he ever intended, but that might just be one step too far.

Tang Fan looks as if he is about to fall asleep, even though the position he is in — especially the angle of his legs — can‘t be very comfortable. Wang Zhi takes another long, fond look at his face, marvels at the long lashes touching his creamy cheeks and the softness of his thin, slightly opened lips, then he lets out a little sigh of his own and changes from his kneeling position to sit back on his folded legs.

Either the sigh or the motion makes Tang Fan come out of his post-climatic haze. Wang Zhi is not looking at his face at that moment, but using his clean hand to pull out the handkerchief he‘d earlier stuffed into his sleeve, which is a little difficult since he had stuffed it into his left sleeve and his clean hand is also his left… Apparently Tang Fan can see the edge of the handkerchief peeking out and deduces what exactly Wang Zhi is trying to do here, so he sits up — his bandaged legs still straddling Wang Zhi‘s knees, a comfortable, warm point of contact — and gently grasps Wang Zhi‘s forearm.

„Let me do that,“ he says, his voice still rough from all the noise he had been making. Wang Zhi looks up at him, but Tang Fan is focused on getting that handkerchief out. His hands are a little shaky, but he eventually manages, and when Wang Zhi tries to take the piece of cloth to clean himself, Tang Fan refuses to let go.

He doesn‘t explain himself — his eyelids keep drooping, so Wang Zhi assumes he is too tired to talk much — but he still insists on cleaning his mess off Wang Zhi‘s hand. The touch of the handkerchief, and of Tang Fan‘s fingers through the cloth, feels very pleasant on Wang Zhi‘s hand, which has started to throb slightly, maybe because Tang Fan had squeezed him a little too hard earlier. He can also feel slight pain in his wrist, likely from the strain of being held at an unnatural angle while moving. It‘s a good thing that very little of his work these days is directly related to what he can do with his hands, so it won‘t be an issue if that pain doesn‘t go away by tomorrow. Maybe it will be a reminder of what happened tonight, some actual proof that this wasn‘t just a dream.

Tang Fan is trying to be thorough, but it‘s very obvious that he is pushing his body‘s limits. He cleans up Wang Zhi‘s hand well enough, even rubbing between his fingers, which makes a strange little shiver tickle up his arm into his chest. When he is finished, he lets out a weak little yawn and turns his bleary eyes to the furs next to them.

He is too tired to even notice that his now soft cock is still not cleaned up. Wang Zhi takes the handkerchief back and gives him a quick rub-down, then he wipes the few drops off his belly as well. Tang Fan squirms a little, but he is hardly able to hold himself upright, so he doesn‘t complain.

Once both of them are reasonably clean, Wang Zhi drops the handkerchief on the ground next to the bed and stands up, carefully disentangling himself from Tang Fan‘s long, long legs. He helps Tang Fan lie down with his head on the pillow he‘d been clutching earlier, then he strips down to his own middle clothes. He takes the time to fold both his outer layers and Tang Fan‘s discarded middle clothes and puts them aside, then he comes back to the warm kang where he left his brilliant little scholar and takes down the bed curtains. He snuffs out the candles, then he slips into the warm cocoon and arranges first the duvet and then a fur blanket over the both of them. Tang Fan is moving a little, maybe trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

Wang Zhi feels tired to the bones too, but this tiredness feels better than the exhaustion he had felt earlier that night. He doesn‘t feel hollowed out and filled with fog like he did earlier, but warm and soft and strangely safe.

“Good night,” he whispers. The only answer he gets is deep, rhythmic breathing. He smiles as he rolls onto his side, his back to Tang Fan since he can‘t sleep with his back to the curtains. The warmth of the heated bed, the softness of the furs, and the noise of Tang Fan‘s breathing envelop him, and he hardly has time to feel smug about how effectively he has put Tang Fan to sleep — despite Tang Fan‘s protestations when he had entered his tent in that flimsy coat what seems to be hours ago — before he feels the delicious heaviness of sleep finally pull him under its surface.

___________FIN______________

Some research notes:

Kang: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kang_bed-stove

Yesa: https://torguqin.wordpress.com/2011/09/15/yesa-for-dummies/

The ointment is historically inaccurate, bc I assume Wang Zhi would use powder for open wounds, but I wanted him to really get to touch Tang Fan ;)