Chapter Text
❅
After the fact, it’s hard to say whose fault it is, really.
Possibly no one’s. In the moment, as in any night hunt, there’s an ongoing flurry of motion and action, Chu Wanning maneuvering to ensure all three of his disciples have coverage as the mountain yaoguai spits blasts of ice left and right. Later, Mo Ran will claim it’s his fault, but as it is, the sequence goes like this: Xue Meng falling to the ground as he dodges a blow, hard enough to break a limb; Chu Wanning pausing mid-attack to yank him to his feet as another strike narrowly misses the two of them; Chu Wanning whirling back toward the creature, watching the next moment play out in slow motion: a third spear of ice, hurtling toward Mo Ran.
Mo Ran isn’t moving fast enough.
Before his mind can catch up, Chu Wanning has thrown himself in front of him, deaf to Mo Ran’s shout of alarm. The blast hits him no more than a second later, a bolt of cold through his chest so powerful that his limbs seize up.
Chu Wanning doubles over, clutching his chest. The sensation throbs around his heart like a second pulse, then slowly tendrils through the rest of his body. It feels like melting snow trapped in his lungs; it drips into his organs, his bones, the tip of each nerve.
The pain of it is startling enough that his vision goes dark. When he comes to again, he finds himself flat on the ground. Inexplicably, there’s now the sound of a baby crying.
“Shizun, shizun, shizun!”
When Chu Wanning opens his eyes, all three of his disciples are crowding over him, each of their heads at a different angle. Xue Meng, the baby in question, is the loudest, near tears in his sightline.
“He’s awake, he’s awake!” Xue Meng is saying now. “Shizun, can you hear me?!”
Chu Wanning tries to speak, but the cold’s grip is strong enough that his jaw remains stiff and locked.
“He’s struggling to breathe,” Shi Mei murmurs. Then, more clearly: “Shizun, can you talk?”
I’m fine, Chu Wanning tries to say, uncomfortable and a little irritated to be the target of so much fawning. But his jaw still won’t move, clenched tight as his teeth chatter uncontrollably against the cold.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says in a low, urgent voice, then snaps, “Stop,” to Xue Meng’s fussing. He picks up Xue Meng by the scruff like an unruly pup and deposits him elsewhere. Then his handsome features fill Chu Wanning’s field of vision again.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says again. The concern in his voice sinks under Chu Wanning’s skin, a whisper of warmth. “How do you feel?”
Chu Wanning can’t fully speak yet, still. The cold is such that it’s started to burn, a numbness that makes his insides feel like stone. He can feel his jaw is shaking from the effort of not chattering his teeth. In a spasm of self-loathing, he curses his own uselessness. He’d spent years honing his core only to be taken down by a measly cold curse?
Mo Ran hangs his head, his ponytail brushing his cheek.
“It was this disciple’s fault that shizun was injured,” Mo Ran says quietly. “If I had been faster . . . if I . . .”
“No,” Chu Wanning scrapes out.
Mo Ran glances up in surprise.
“Shizun!!!” Xue Meng says at the sound of Chu Wanning’s voice. He knocks Mo Ran aside. “Shizun, can you breathe?! Shizun, please allow this humble disciple to administer mouth-to-mouth!”
“No,” Chu Wanning says flatly just as Mo Ran swats Xue Meng up the back of the head.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says, thankfully moving Xue Meng out of view again. One of his hands rests on Chu Wanning’s, and it moves through him like fire. The warmth of his touch is such a relief that Chu Wanning stifles a small, involuntary moan. He manages to pass it off as a choked sound.
To cover for it, he glares at Mo Ran in warning, but Mo Ran doesn’t move his hand away, to Chu Wanning’s private relief.
“His skin is as cold as ice,” Mo Ran murmurs, presumably to Shi Mei. “It must be some kind of freezing curse.”
“Is the creature dead?” Chu Wanning grates out.
“Yeah,” Mo Ran says. “Shi Mei and I took care of it.”
“And me!” Xue Meng pipes up indignantly.
“What did you do?”
“I helped — !”
“Stop,” Chu Wanning says, and three anxious pairs of eyes land on him again.
“We’ll probably need to carry him back,” Shi Mei says, looking down at Chu Wanning with a crease between his perfect brows.
“No,” Chu Wanning says for the umpteenth time, just as Mo Ran and Xue Meng say in unison, “I’ll do it.”
“Like shizun would want to be carried by the likes of you,” Xue Meng says to Mo Ran haughtily.
“I watched you struggle to lift a sack of rice yesterday,” Mo Ran retorts.
Twin spots of color appear in Xue Meng’s cheeks. “You — ”
“Stop,” Chu Wanning snaps again. “No one is carrying me.” He’s finally wrangled his vocal cords back under control again. Now that he’s recovered from the initial shock, he can feel his core fighting to disperse the symptoms.
“Can shizun walk?” Shi Mei asks.
Chu Wanning burns at the indignity of the question.
“Of course I can walk,” he says. “I’m not so pathetic and helpless.”
Shi Mei pales. “I didn’t mean . . . ”
With every bit of his strength, Chu Wanning pulls himself up into a sitting position. The cold moves inside him like ice floats cracking and shifting. It resettles in his stomach and the bottom of his lungs.
Mo Ran’s hand is still folded on top of his, the sole point of heat in Chu Wanning’s body; a shaft of sunlight on snow. Nonsensically, Chu Wanning wonders if he could start to melt as well, with Mo Ran touching him like that.
He banishes the ridiculous thought to the darkest pit of his mind. Then he shakily attempts to stand, Mo Ran holding onto him the entire way.
“Let’s go back,” Chu Wanning says. His three disciples trade uneasy looks. At Chu Wanning’s glare, they quickly chorus an agreement.
Each step back to Sisheng Peak is agony. Chu Wanning feels as though he’s moving through marble. He has to focus on coordinating each of his limbs, each joint and muscle to ensure they don’t lock up. He has to stop halfway back to catch his breath. It feels like inhaling pure winter.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says in a low voice, and that warmth comes again — a flare in the center of his shoulder blades as Mo Ran’s hand rests there. “If you need to stop, we can — ”
“I’m fine.” Chu Wanning shakes off Mo Ran’s hand, then levels an icy glare at him. “Or do you think your shizun is so weak?”
Mo Ran’s hands wave back and forth in front of him. “Not weak.” His gaze lowers pointedly to the middle of Chu Wanning’s chest, like he can see the curse spreading inside him. “But everyone can be hurt. Even shizun.”
Xue Meng bustles up to Chu Wanning’s side, bristling with indignation. “Who are you to question him?! If shizun says he’s fine, then he’s fine!”
Mo Ran flicks a withering glance at him, then his eyes return to Chu Wanning and soften. Chu Wanning wants Mo Ran’s hands on him again, that harbor of relief from cold and pain, and he recoils at the thought. Quickly, he turns on his heel and starts marching toward Sisheng Peak again, grinding his teeth to keep them from chattering.
He manages to reach Red Lotus Pavilion without fainting again, although just barely. Shi Mei and Xue Meng have the sense to hang back, perhaps sensing Chu Wanning’s foul mood and his need to be alone, but his other foolish disciple charges after him, following him all the way to the sliding door until Chu Wanning slams it shut in his face.
Mo Ran’s silhouette hesitates, then knocks.
“Shizun,” he calls. “It’s really probably dangerous for you to —”
“Leave me alone,” Chu Wanning says.
Mo Ran pauses, then finally sighs and goes away. Chu Wanning’s shoulders relax with relief. Now at least he can bear this humiliation in private.
Only moments later, the shivering begins.
Chu Wanning wraps himself in another three layers of robes, then buries himself into his bed under every blanket he can find in his room. Nothing helps. The cold seems to be radiating from inside him, not the other way around. The shivers worsen until Chu Wanning’s limbs start to spasm and jerk. As the sun sets, he sinks into a restless, miserable sleep, and he wakes in the middle of the night, long before it’s risen again. His quarters are the same temperature as the outdoors, a typical summer evening, but he can see his breath pouring out of him in a visible stream.
The thought of moving from his bed seems absolutely impossible. His body is so stiff that for a wild, panicked moment, he thinks he’s unable to move at all. Then his joints creak as he slowly shifts his extremities. Chu Wanning groans with the pain and the effort.
If I don’t leave this bed, he thinks with sudden conviction, I’m going to die in it.
Chu Wanning grits his aching teeth and moves, painstakingly swinging his legs down to the floor. The wooden floorboards feel almost balmy against the cold soles of his feet. The idea of walking to the library seems unimaginable, but if he doesn’t find a cure, he’s going to die. He can feel the curse slowly but surely working its way around his heart, and his core is weakening with each passing hour. Despite himself, Chu Wanning feels a stab of helpless despair. After everything, is he really going to die again so soon? Like this?
He first thinks he’s imagining it when a soft rustle comes at the door. Chu Wanning stills, sharpening his hearing to the sound.
A moment later, the door slides open, and a tall figure silently sinks through. The shadow hesitates, then moves a few steps toward the bed.
“Stop,” Chu Wanning says. He tries to project ferocity — he’s still the Yuheng Elder, damn it all — before he realizes he’s completely helpless. Even the lowest-ranking cultivator could take him apart right now.
The shadow freezes, and then it moves into a silver slant of moonlight.
“Did I wake shizun?” Mo Ran asks softly. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
Chu Wanning is abruptly too exhausted to argue with him or to tell him off for his pigheadedness. Mortifying as his situation is, he can’t deny that he’s relieved to see Mo Ran.
“You didn’t wake me,” Chu Wanning says. “I wasn’t asleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep either,” Mo Ran says. “I was trying to think of ideas for how to stop the effects of the curse.”
Chu Wanning can’t help but find the admission a little touching. “You shouldn’t worry about me.”
“How could I not?” Mo Ran replies, far too sincerely for Chu Wanning’s wellbeing. “Shizun, I was thinking. If this curse works by slowly freezing you, what if we countered it with heat?”
A slew of sordid images springs suddenly to mind, and despite the numbness in his face, Chu Wanning feels the beginnings of a blush.
“Meaning?” he snaps.
“The hot springs,” Mo Ran says.
Oh. Chu Wanning considers this. It isn’t . . . a terrible idea. It might at least stave off the worst of the effects, even if the cold is internal rather than external. But the concept of getting there in Chu Wanning’s current state seems nigh impossible, and —
“It’s the middle of the night,” Chu Wanning says.
“Exactly,” Mo Ran agrees. “No one will see us.”
“Us,” Chu Wanning echoes.
Mo Ran straightens his broad shoulders, his head drawing high. “Yeah, of course. I’m coming with you.”
As if Chu Wanning needs more witness to the embarrassment of this spectacle. The simple concept of Mo Ran having to help him hobble to the springs, then watching him strip off his layers until he’s —
“Not necessary,” Chu Wanning says the moment the thought crosses his mind.
Mo Ran visibly deflates a little, but he keeps his head high. “You can’t stop me.”
Chu Wanning clenches his teeth. “Mo Ran — ”
“Shizun, please let me help you.” Mo Ran’s voice has turned pleading. “This was my fault to begin with. The curse was meant for me.”
Chu Wanning isn’t actually certain that’s true. The punishment seems eerily fitting to someone of Chu Wanning’s character, untouchable and frigid in every way.
Mo Ran’s shoulders are still pinched, his head lowered and his eyes on the floor. “I know I’m not worthy to assist shizun. I only . . . ” The knot of his throat bobs. “I thought . . . ”
Seeing Mo Ran such a way, sweet and earnest and almost downtrodden, Chu Wanning feels a helpless pang of fondness. He can’t help but soften toward it.
“Look at you,” he says, gentler than before. Mo Ran’s head snaps up at his tone, his eyes widening. “Who isn’t worthy?”
Mo Ran blinks, his eyes still round with disbelief. Then a radiant smile lights up his face, two dimples pocking his cheeks. Chu Wanning feels the warmth in his chest pooling wider, a trembling of some liquid-hot current that runs deeper than affection.
The sensation momentarily alleviates some of the ice grip around his heart. For a full breath, Chu Wanning feels almost . . . normal. He frowns, putting a hand to his chest.
Then Mo Ran bounds over to him, and Chu Wanning flinches back from him on instinct. Once again, the cold snaps its jaws around Chu Wanning’s heart like a steel trap.
“Shizun.” Mo Ran’s eyes search his face earnestly, like he wants to draw out that warmth from wherever it’s darted into hiding.
“What is it?” Chu Wanning says, on edge with Mo Ran’s closeness.
Mo Ran takes a deep breath, as if to brace himself, then puts his hands on Chu Wanning’s shoulders. Heat spills out from his touch, trickling into Chu Wanning’s core, and he flinches.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran repeats, with the utmost sincerity. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”
A horrifying heat sweeps up Chu Wanning’s neck. The natural reflex to recoil from such a sentiment, coming from Mo Ran, engages in a quick and dirty battle with the part of Chu Wanning that turns terribly sweet.
“Ridiculous,” he manages, keeping his gaze averted. He shrugs Mo Ran’s hands off. Hopefully it’s dark enough in the room to hide the pink in his face and his flustered reaction. “Nothing is going to happen.”
Mo Ran’s silence informs Chu Wanning that he’s about as convinced on that matter as Chu Wanning is.
The moment Mo Ran’s hands are gone, cold descends over Chu Wanning again. The force of its return nearly sends him to his knees, and it’s only Mo Ran’s light touch on his shoulder that propels him up and out the door.
It’s a course in anguish to travel to the hot springs in Chu Wanning’s current state, but it’s made at least walkable by Mo Ran’s hand on his shoulder the entire way, an anchor of heat that unlocks his joints. The only alternative would be to fly by sword with Mo Ran supporting him from behind, which Chu Wanning so vehemently refuses that Mo Ran maintains a careful silence for most of the trek.
It’s still the dead of the night, a thick quiet blanketing the entire mountain. Even the surrounding nature is silent, aside from the wind catching in the trees. When they arrive, the springs are as vacant as Mo Ran had promised. Opaque steam curls up against the rocks bordering the pool. They’d chanced into a full moon tonight, and its light touches the bubbling water to silver.
Mo Ran respectfully turns his back as Chu Wanning removes his layers, undressing until he’s left in just his trousers. Chu Wanning would burn with embarrassment, were he still capable of such a thing. Still, he tries to maintain a dignified air as he picks his way into the water. He wades over to the furthest possible edge of the spring and lowers himself so that everything below his neck is concealed beneath the waterline.
It’s the strangest thing. He knows he should feel warm. The steam is viscid against his face, and his skin is already pinking from the water’s heat. But he can’t feel it at all; his body remains as cold as it had out of the spring. Within seconds, the shivering returns. Chu Wanning hadn’t had high hopes for this endeavor, but a frustrated sound still escapes him, worn as he is in his exhaustion.
Mo Ran’s hearing, cultivator-sharp, picks it up. “Shizun?” he calls over his shoulder, still keeping his back turned. “Is it working?”
“No,” Chu Wanning says through gritted teeth. “I — ah.”
The last noise tears out of him unbidden. As he spoke, a lance-like pain had pierced his heart, the cold so stunning it had momentarily stopped beating. He clutches his chest in his alarm, then tries to breathe as his heart recovers.
Before Chu Wanning has a hope of stopping him, Mo Ran whirls around, alarm clear on his face. “Shizun?!”
“It’s fine,” Chu Wanning says, and then it happens again, that little stab that stops his heart. He chokes, clutching his chest tighter. It’s as though the curse is retaliating for Chu Wanning’s futile attempts to combat it.
“I’m coming in.” By the time Chu Wanning looks up, Mo Ran has half of his clothes off, his jaw squared in determination.
“Don’t,” Chu Wanning says, but the protest comes out hoarse. His heart is still acting strange, and it makes his voice weak.
Mo Ran is already shedding his inner robe. “You can’t stop me.”
His bare shoulders are thick and corded in the moonlight, each line of his torso perfectly sculpted. A dark trail of hair dips into the waistband of his thin trousers, where there’s a sizable bulge in the front. He’s . . . impossibly beautiful.
Chu Wanning’s erratic heart starts to beat harder, heat pooling in his chest.
“Mo Ran,” he hisses when Mo Ran steps into the spring.
Mo Ran ignores him to cut through the water, picking his way across the rocks along the bottom. Proximity brings the view of his body into sharper definition, and Chu Wanning looks away, clenching his teeth.
“Shizun, is it your heart?” Mo Ran asks. When Chu Wanning turns back, he finds only concern mirrored back at him, a dark furrow in Mo Ran’s brow. He already looks young, but the pall of worry makes him seem even younger. It’s a reminder of Chu Wanning’s own profane desires as Mo Ran comes even closer.
“S-stay back,” Chu Wanning says. He’s so flustered by Mo Ran’s nearness, half-naked near his own state of undress, that he almost misses the second flare of heat that momentarily pulses through him.
Chu Wanning is a stubborn man, but not a stupid one. It’s become evident by now what is, at least the temporary, solution to his quandary. However, it’s also possible he would really rather die than submit himself to it.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says again, and stops in front of him. His eyes are warm, dark enough to get lost in. Spring water glitters on his skin like pearls. It beads the supple muscles of his shoulders, his collarbones; his dark nipples, which are hard even in the hot water. A hot brand of want sings in Chu Wanning, trembling in his core.
Mo Ran reaches out to him.
“Don’t touch me,” Chu Wanning says, but it comes out toothless. More like a request than a demand. Mo Ran pauses, hovering his hand over Chu Wanning’s shoulder. Not touching. The cold burns.
“You said that the hot water isn’t helping?” Mo Ran asks.
Chu Wanning gives a single shake of his head.
Mo Ran sighs and retracts his hand, then scrubs it through his hair, radiating frustration.
“There has to be something for it,” he says softly to himself. “There can’t be nothing. It’s just that we haven’t found the solution yet.”
Chu Wanning swallows. He could be honest with Mo Ran and tell him his theory, with the knowledge that Mo Ran will insist on helping, will insist on touching him, on saying things that might . . .
He wars with himself as cold gnaws at his organs. In many ways, for Chu Wanning, death would be easier than this. Having been dead for at least a little while, he can’t really complain about the experience.
But looking at Mo Ran, the lines of his face haggard with concern — concern for Chu Wanning — he reaches a rather startling conclusion. He would prefer to live.
So Chu Wanning thickens his face and takes a deep breath.
“There is,” he says, “something.”
Mo Ran snaps to attention, one of his brows lifting with interest. “Oh?”
Thankfully, Chu Wanning’s body is much too busy freezing itself to death to blush. It’s still a near thing.
“Physical contact,” he says, keeping his tone detached and chilled. “The curse can’t be mediated by external sources of heat, such as layering and hot water, but tactility seems to be a loophole.”
Chu Wanning cannot bring himself to speak the full truth: that the most potent instances of heat he’s felt, since this curse began, have transpired without touch. He doesn’t voice his other hunch either: that it’s unlikely anyone else’s touch would affect the curse either which way. It’s clear now that the heat generates from something shameful within Chu Wanning, something that only Mo Ran’s attention, or possibly his — affection — can stoke. On that matter, Chu Wanning really would rather die than say it out loud.
“Tactility,” Mo Ran echoes, then brightens. “Oh, you mean touch?”
“I haven’t proven it,” Chu Wanning says. He crosses his arms over his chest. His awareness of Mo Ran’s eyes on him is claustrophobic. He feels like an ugly mule in the presence of a wellbred stallion.
Mo Ran exhales, his breath skipping in a relieved little laugh. “Well, okay — that’s easy, then. Here —” He reaches out, and again Chu Wanning flinches back.
Mo Ran blinks, the easy smile slipping off his face.
“Shizun,” he says. Although his voice is steady, the hurt in it is unmistakable. “Is it because. . .”
Chu Wanning blinks through the steam, frozen on how to interpret where the question is leading.
Mo Ran pulls back. He pulls inward. “I know I . . .” He clears his throat. “Would you rather Shi Mei or Xue Meng . . .”
The idea is so repellent that Chu Wanning snaps, “Don’t be ridiculous,” then internally winces at the harshness of his tone.
Mo Ran, at least, seems accustomed to these abrasive outbursts by now, so he just looks at Chu Wanning and waits for him to continue.
“It has to be you,” Chu Wanning says, pelting the words in his haste to spit them out. Mo Ran’s words to him back at the pavilion nag at him. “It’s not a question of worthiness.”
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says. His voice is quiet, his gaze lowered. “If you knew the things I . . .” He trails off, apparently too ashamed to continue.
Chu Wanning frowns. Whatever Mo Ran has done in his short lifespan can’t compare to Chu Wanning’s own sordid desires; the writhing mass of shame and anger that burns in him as hot as bile. He thinks that alone should be enough to heat him up, but it only turns him colder, more so with every passing moment.
“It doesn’t matter,” Chu Wanning says briskly. “I don’t care what you’ve done.”
What’s the worst sin that Mo Ran could have committed at his young age, anyhow? Drinking and gambling in excess, dogging around with a few cut-sleeve whores? Chu Wanning does his best not to tread that last trail of thought, because it only incites an ugly jealousy in him.
Mo Ran is staring at him. He’s staring at Chu Wanning’s body too, his eyes dropping to where the rest of him is dark and hidden under the water. Chu Wanning is so cold that he’s shaking. Steam curls up between them, dewing in his lashes.
Mo Ran glides through the water again, moving toward him with a quiet splash. When did he get so tall? Their five years apart had turned him more man than boy. He nearly towers over Chu Wanning now, drawn up to his full height.
“Let me touch you, then,” Mo Ran says, and there it is — a lightning fork of heat that cracks through the ice, so sharply that Chu Wanning almost gasps.
Chu Wanning silently takes a few seconds to recover his wits. Then he says, in his tersest professorial voice, “Fine, get on with it.”
Mo Ran almost smiles, a fond softening of his mouth, and before Chu Wanning can snap anything else, both of Mo Ran’s large, callused hands find his bare shoulders. Chu Wanning goes silent. Heat descends. For a fleeting moment, he can feel the scorch of the spring water against his skin, and it’s such a startling disparity from the cold that it almost hurts. Mo Ran’s hands slide down his arms, slippery with the water, and then back up; he does this three more times before Chu Wanning realizes that he’s rubbing him, and this time, the cold has retreated enough that Chu Wanning does blush.
“Feels good?” Mo Ran asks quietly. His dark, dark eyes haven’t left Chu Wanning’s face. There’s a banked heat in them that seems older than him; a whetted focus like he knows exactly what he’s doing to Chu Wanning. Maybe even more than Chu Wanning does. The thought makes Chu Wanning flush harder, but the warmth of his blood feels too welcome to protest.
“It does seem to help,” Chu Wanning says neutrally, when he’s managed to gather his composure again.
Mo Ran hums, then says, “Turn around.”
It chokes Chu Wanning like a hand to his throat. As he does, he can almost hear an older, hoarser version of Mo Ran’s voice snarling at him, Now bend over. Just how you like it. But Mo Ran hasn’t — he would never —
Chu Wanning’s head swims. Something is deeply wrong with him.
Mo Ran’s hands move on him again, sluicing hot water down his shoulders and back. Chu Wanning has never been more aware of his own breathing, or of Mo Ran’s. Both sound equally rough. Mo Ran’s hands linger, gliding over the blades of his shoulders, and Chu Wanning feels the wet trousers over his lap tighten in a slow build of arousal. The realization is humiliating enough that Chu Wanning shuts his eyes and begins to meditate, pretending the hands on him belong to anyone else.
“Is this working?” Mo Ran murmurs. His voice is close to Chu Wanning’s ear, close enough that Chu Wanning feels it tingle down the back of his neck.
Chu Wanning tightens his hands into fists and gives a stiff nod.
Mo Ran’s hands drift lower than his shoulders, sliding down the wet expanse of his back to his hips. Like this, with Chu Wanning’s back turned, it would be so easy for Mo Ran to shove him up against the rocks, bend him over the edge of the spring and — Chu Wanning’s face is so hot, even more so with the renewed heat of the water. How can that be something he wants? His cock fattens up at the mere thought of it; of how effortless it would be. How Chu Wanning could resist, and it wouldn’t matter at all. In the haze of his exhaustion, the steam floating in and out of his vision, Chu Wanning can almost believe this entire outing is a bizarre fever dream, one of his lurid fantasies led astray.
But Mo Ran’s hands on him are unquestionably real. He’s still gliding them up and down Chu Wanning’s back, across the span of his shoulders. The nape of his neck. Chu Wanning’s hands find the rocky edge of the pool and grip on, bracing himself. He lowers his head, trying to reorder his breathing.
Mo Ran’s voice is deeper when it comes again. “Is this okay?”
Chu Wanning doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he gives a tight nod. He can’t dismiss the fact now that he’s fully hard, straining against the thin silk of his pants. Given the translucent material, it would be extremely obvious if he were to leave the spring. At the thought, a slow panic worms through him. Mo Ran can’t know. He can’t.
Chu Wanning forces himself to sound fierce. “Stop.” Mo Ran hesitates, then does. “That’s enough for now.”
Mo Ran’s hands have stopped rubbing him, but they don’t leave his body. Mo Ran rests them on Chu Wanning’s shoulders, the heat of him as solid as a wall, nearly close enough to press back against. Chu Wanning closes his eyes and conjures up every awful thought in his arsenal to will his cock to calm down. Mo Ran is only trying to help, after all. It’s innocent. Someone of Chu Wanning’s standing and virtue should be ashamed of themself.
“I want to go back,” Chu Wanning says, when he’s finally managed to wrangle his body back into its usual ruliness. “There’s no point sitting around in hot water when we know it doesn’t help.”
Mo Ran is quiet, then says, “Okay.” His hands still haven’t left Chu Wanning’s shoulders.
“You go first.”
After another pause, Mo Ran complies, taking his hands and his heat with him across the spring.
Chu Wanning silently steadies himself on the rocks as the cold slams into him again, his heart stuttering under the force of it.
He has a long night ahead of him.
❅
Given his insistence on helping earlier, it’s surprisingly easy to convince Mo Ran to leave Chu Wanning alone for the remainder of the night. When they return to Red Lotus Pavilion, Mo Ran seems otherwise distracted, so he lets Chu Wanning shake him off without any protest. He mutters under his breath about something he needs to check on, and then slips out into the night. His departure leaves Chu Wanning alone for the second time that day.
He doesn’t sleep a wink. Chu Wanning discovers that if he lies down, his body begins to immobilize, the violent shivering too much to bear. His only option is to keep himself in motion in any way he can.
So he paces, in a slow and agonizing circle, from the deep hours of night until the first hint of dawn.
As Chu Wanning moves, as slow and creaking as a man four times his age, he hears the quiet crackle of ice on his skin cracking and reforming. Ice crystals catch in his lashes and glass over his lips. He has to keep licking them to clear it away, but his tongue is so cold that it doesn’t make much of a difference. As his senses begin to fade, his thoughts turn more and more fervently toward Mo Ran, craving his warmth like a parched man in the desert does water. It’s possible that by the time Mo Ran returns to Red Lotus Pavilion, he’ll find Chu Wanning completely frozen over, like a statue covered in snow. The thought is enough to keep him moving at his glacial pace, as agonizing as it is.
By the time dawn falls over the room, Chu Wanning can hardly keep his eyes open. He can feel his body shaking with fatigue, and he stops in his slow pacing to set his hand upon his desk and close his eyes. Whether it’s sleep loss or the curse, reality has started to feel a lot more slippery around him, blurring in and out. His heart is beating so slowly it’s as though he’s asleep. Not much longer now, until the inevitable.
If Mo Ran were here . . .
A knock raps on the door, with such uncanny timing that Chu Wanning nearly startles. He’s too weak to make his way over, so he calls out, almost inaudible, “Enter.”
The door slides open, and Mo Ran steps through, holding a steaming bowl of soup in his hands. His eyes widen when he takes in whatever sight Chu Wanning makes. Some of the blood drains from his face.
“Shizun,” he says, and he sets the bowl down so hard that the contents slop over the edges. Mo Ran rushes to his side, and Chu Wanning nearly collapses into him as he lets his body cave in to his exhaustion. He wouldn’t usually, with another person to witness it, but Mo Ran has already seen him this way, both in life and death. So he crumples into Mo Ran’s arms, and Mo Ran catches him easily, supporting his weight against his chest. Chu Wanning sighs as his blood begins to sluggishly pump again at Mo Ran’s touch.
Mo Ran’s voice cracks when he speaks. “Why didn’t you send for me?”
Chu Wanning ignores the question. He can see dark circles under Mo Ran’s eyes, a haggardness in his face made more plain by the broad light of day.
“Did you sleep?”
Mo Ran gives an impatient shake of his head. “Couldn’t. I was at the library looking for possible cures.” Mo Ran picks up one of Chu Wanning’s arms and straightens it out. It’s covered in a sheen of frost, white crystals latticing over his pale skin. Mo Ran puts his other hand there, and the frost melts, some color returning to the skin.
“Have you been up like this all night?” Mo Ran asks, hoarse with worry. Usually, Chu Wanning would lash out at such meddling concern — he’s fully capable of looking after himself without being fussed over — but he’s already half-asleep in Mo Ran’s arms, and it saps the fight out of him.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says, jostling him a little. “I’m going to put you on the bed. Is that alright?”
“Mn,” says Chu Wanning, his eyes drifting shut.
Mo Ran hesitates, then says, sounding more cautious, “I’m going to lie with you so you actually can get some rest. Is . . . is that alright?”
The rational part of Chu Wanning that remains voices a protest at such intimacy. The rest of him, the largely exhausted part, cannot begin to complain.
Mo Ran shuffles them over to the bed together, careful to keep as much skin-to-skin contact as he can. Chu Wanning has started to drip where Mo Ran’s closeness melts the layer of ice away, dampening his robes. By now, Chu Wanning knows Mo Ran’s touch won’t be enough to cure the curse on its own — it requires something else entirely. A heat from within. He wants to ask if Mo Ran’s search at the library has been fruitful; to thank him for his efforts, to insist that he didn’t need to go to such lengths on his behalf, but he’s asleep the moment Mo Ran pulls him down onto the bed.
When Chu Wanning wakes again, dusk has darkened the room. He's managed to sleep the entire day away. Chu Wanning feels a slight, lingering chill in his bones, but more pressingly, he feels Mo Ran against his back; the shape of him, the heat.
Chu Wanning’s skin prickles as he blinks, trying to clear the fog in his head as he gathers his bearings. He’s curled up like a shrimp in the circle of Mo Ran’s arms, and Mo Ran is breathing evenly into the back of his neck, stirring the fine hair there.
When it’s clear to him that Mo Ran is asleep, some of Chu Wanning’s initial discomfort subsides. Mo Ran feels good against him, big and muscular and very warm. Chu Wanning would expect to feel uncomfortable in such a position — embarrassed, or even angry at the indignity of being held like someone small — but he feels instead a weary contentment. The relief of being well-rested loosens him, and almost shyly, he aligns his hand over Mo Ran’s where it lies draped over Chu Wanning’s waist.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran mumbles, stirring at the touch, and Chu Wanning snatches his hand away like he’s been scalded. He stiffens and draws himself inward as Mo Ran comes around, making small sleepy sounds as he comes to.
“Shizun, are you awake?” Mo Ran whispers, his breath hot against Chu Wanning’s neck.
“Mn,” Chu Wanning says. He’s excruciatingly uncertain of what to do with himself, and it makes him awkward. His face is too thin to tolerate being held like this while he and Mo Ran are both conscious, but if he pushes Mo Ran away, he’ll only be in a world of pain again.
“Are you feeling better than before?” Mo Ran asks, and Chu Wanning feels his heart do something strange when Mo Ran’s hand moves to cup his waist.
“Rested, yes,” Chu Wanning says. His face burns. He has to work himself up to it before he eventually mutters, “Thanks.”
“What was that?”
“I said thanks,” Chu Wanning says, trying not to squirm. “For helping.”
Mo Ran hums a soft laugh, and Chu Wanning bristles and scowls, certain he’s being teased.
“What’s funny?” he says coldly.
“Nothing, nothing,” Mo Ran says, laughter still warm in his voice. It doesn’t seem like he’s laughing at Chu Wanning’s expense, at least, but Chu Wanning still smarts at his own stiltedness.
Mo Ran must sense his worsening temper, because he tightens his arms around Chu Wanning again and leans his chin onto his shoulder. “It’s just funny that you’re thanking me, when it should be the other way around.”
Chu Wanning huffs, still tetchy. “What have I done to warrant thanks?”
“For letting me be where I most want to be,” Mo Ran says.
The plain sincerity of his words is far too much for Chu Wanning to bear.
“Don’t —” he snaps, then sinks into a flustered silence. He can feel Mo Ran’s chin still digging into his shoulder, Mo Ran’s breath against his cheek. His pulse pounds wildly. He desperately attempts to change the subject. “Were you able to find anything at the library?”
Mo Ran makes a pensive sound in his throat, then sighs. “Nothing useful. I should have come back sooner. I didn’t realize how quickly it would accelerate.”
“I would have been fine,” Chu Wanning mutters, and Mo Ran generously gives him some lost face by not contradicting him. “I’m on borrowed time, anyway.”
It’s Mo Ran’s turn to tense against Chu Wanning, his arms tightening around his ribs so hard that Chu Wanning almost wheezes.
“What do you mean?” Mo Ran says, the languid warmth from before replaced by a sharp edge.
“Touch alone can’t cure this,” Chu Wanning says. That much is clear. “And we won’t be sure in time what will. There’s nothing to be done for it.”
“No,” Mo Ran says. The syllable is so deep and harsh that Chu Wanning nearly startles; when he’d spoken, it had sounded almost like another man entirely.
Chu Wanning opens his mouth to reason with him, but Mo Ran only repeats, “No,” and then says nothing for a long time.
Chu Wanning can sympathize with the difficulty of Mo Ran’s situation. It’s unfortunate for any young master to lose their former mentor, and he and Mo Ran have a certain closeness, even apart from Chu Wanning’s feelings for him. But Chu Wanning was a dead man the moment the curse hit him. While another victim may be able to disperse something like this with ease — with touch, warmth, intimacy — Chu Wanning isn’t built for any of that. His lifelong curse of solitude has only taken a more literal form, and now he’ll pay the toll for it. He can concede the lack of fairness, but he’s nothing if not realistic. Mo Ran can touch him, care for him, speak kind words to him, but these filial attempts were always going to be ineffectual due to one simple and perpetual truth: Chu Wanning is fundamentally unlovable.
That’s not something that Mo Ran can help, of course.
“Mo Ran,” Chu Wanning says, calculating how best to voice any of this in a way that won’t make it seem like his disciple’s fault.
“You can’t die again,” Mo Ran says into the back of his neck. His voice is soft, but there’s a ferocity in it that surprises Chu Wanning. Mo Ran’s arms constrict around him again, nearly hard enough to hurt.
“I just got you back,” he continues, almost too quiet to hear.
Chu Wanning blinks into the dark, parsing through these words. Then he sighs. Mo Ran’s loyalty as his former student is admirable, but deeply misplaced.
“I won’t die,” Chu Wanning says, but his tone must not be very convincing because Mo Ran tenses again.
“Shizun, I’ll stay here as long as I need to,” Mo Ran says. His deep voice thrums against Chu Wanning’s back. “I won’t leave.”
Chu Wanning sighs again around the private pulse of warmth that these words elicit. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll need to eat and drink soon.”
“I’ll practice inedia,” Mo Ran says stubbornly.
“Mo Ran — ”
“I don’t care what it takes,” Mo Ran says in a heated rush. “If I have to cling onto you like this everywhere we go, for the rest of my life — I’ll do it, so long as you keep living.”
Such a proclamation shocks Chu Wanning into an uneasy silence. What kind of foolish notions had Mo Ran filled his head with, when he was off becoming Mo-zongshi?
“Ridiculous,” Chu Wanning mutters, although he can’t keep himself from flushing at such tacit devotion. “I’m not worth all of that.”
“You are,” Mo Ran says, and Chu Wanning feels chills ripple down his back when Mo Ran’s mouth brushes the nape of his neck as he speaks. “You are to me.”
Blood rushes to Chu Wanning’s head so fast it spins. It’s suddenly all far too much to bear, lying in Mo Ran’s arms and hearing him say such things when they’ll never — there’s no way they can. . .
Mo Ran must feel Chu Wanning’s tension. His response is to sigh into the back of Chu Wanning’s shoulder. “I know shizun doesn’t like it when I talk like this. But I only say it because I mean it, and because — ” His voice softens. “You should hear it said.”
Chu Wanning burns against Mo Ran, biting back the urge to flee. He wants to wriggle away from this entire scenario, even if it means the cold and the pain return. He wants to sink deeper and deeper into the ground until it swallows him up in one gulp.
“Mo Ran,” he begins, faltering.
Mo Ran brushes his nose against the nape of Chu Wanning’s neck again — is he nuzzling?! — and Chu Wanning stiffens further when he feels the touch of Mo Ran’s mouth against his skin. Deliberate, this time.
Chu Wanning’s blood is boiling in a way it often has in anger, but never in a context like this. It feels like lava has replaced all the liquid in his body.
“Mo Ran —”
“How can it be wrong to feel like this?” Mo Ran’s voice is despairing. “Tell me how I can’t like you when you’re perfect like this — shizun —”
At the words, Chu Wanning feels his face erupt into flame. He experiences the childish, reflexive urge to cover his ears, to block out the ludicrous nonsense that Mo Ran is spouting.
“Let go of me,” Chu Wanning orders in his desperation to get away, but Mo Ran’s arms only tighten around him more stubbornly as he buries his face between Chu Wanning’s shoulder-blades.
“Shizun, I like you,” Mo Ran mumbles, so muffled that Chu Wanning is certain he’s misheard. “I really like you.”
Chu Wanning’s mind blanks into a blind panic, and for a moment he lies as stunned as a downed bird. Sour realization follows swiftly after.
“Quit messing around,” Chu Wanning snaps, clinging onto the ease of anger in the turmoil of the other dangerous emotions tearing through him. It’s pathetic that only a handful of words from Mo Ran can unravel him so utterly. “The curse isn’t —”
Mo Ran grabs him by the hips and, in a startlingly powerful movement, flips him around so that they’re facing each other. Chu Wanning reels; he’s wholly unused to being handled like this. As the Yuheng Elder, there are few who would dare to touch him, let alone like this.
Like this, Mo Ran’s face is so close to his, his eyes sparking with a strange fire and his expression a little wild.
“This isn’t about the curse,” Mo Ran says. “And I’m not messing around! I — I mean every word.”
“Enough,” Chu Wanning hisses, shoving futilely at Mo Ran’s broad chest.
Mo Ran ignores the attempt and grabs Chu Wanning’s hand instead.
“Mo Weiyu!!” Chu Wanning says, trying for sternness even as his heart thrashes like a beached fish in his chest. “S-stop this at once. You have no idea what you’re —”
“I do!” Mo Ran says, his hand tightening around Chu Wanning’s. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but shizun, I — I actually really — I really do like you like that!”
More of that terrible heat from earlier has started to spread through Chu Wanning, a brushfire catching. He wants to stop Mo Ran from talking further, from saying anything else in that — awful voice; those awful words that can’t be true, and even if they were, Chu Wanning could never tolerate or accept them, not when he’s . . .
“I think you’re the best person,” Mo Ran continues, softening his voice when he sees Chu Wanning has gone dumbstruck and frozen. He gently sweeps a strand of hair out of Chu Wanning’s face. “The most beautiful.”
This time, Chu Wanning’s hands do come up to cover his ears, trying to box out Mo Ran’s voice. The heat is now far more intolerable than the cold — it burns twice as intensely. It’s like there are two diurnal forces in him vying for dominance, fire and ice. He’s quite certain, at this point, that his heart is going to give out from sheer exhaustion by the time the night is through.
Mo Ran’s hands lift to tug Chu Wanning’s away from his ears. Chu Wanning cannot look at him. He keeps his eyes down, staring at nothing as his chest heaves.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran persists. “Do you believe me? That I like you?”
“I think,” Chu Wanning says, and is surprised to hear how steady he sounds, “that you may believe you do, based on profound misguidance.” And possibly a visual impairment, with the comment on his appearance. It defies belief enough for Chu Wanning to wonder if Mo Ran had also been cursed alongside him on the mountain with something to the effect of grand illusions.
Mo Ran makes a frustrated sound, his hands tightening around Chu Wanning’s wrists. “I know exactly how I feel.” His breath hitches, and one of his palms cups Chu Wanning’s cheek. “I know exactly what I want.”
“Mo Ran,” Chu Wanning warns. This time, his voice does shake.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran whispers, “sorry about this,” and then he’s leaning forward before Chu Wanning can even think to react. Mo Ran’s mouth is as hot as the rest of him, earnest and hungry when it captures Chu Wanning’s.
Chu Wanning can only lie there and let himself be kissed, completely dumbfounded. He can’t even close his eyes, and it makes the handsome lines of Mo Ran’s face blur up close. It must be an awful kiss for Mo Ran; Chu Wanning is too paralyzed to even attempt to move his mouth in reciprocation. It probably feels like kissing a dead fish.
Despite Chu Wanning’s utter lack of skill, Mo Ran is persistent. He pulls at Chu Wanning’s lower lip with the gentlest nip, and Chu Wanning inhales, his mouth parting further. Encouraged, Mo Ran crowds closer to him, his large hands cupping either side of Chu Wanning’s face. Chu Wanning is still in shock, but his body at least responds for him, finally attempting to clumsily match Mo Ran’s movements. Mo Ran hums against his mouth, then deepens the kiss, one of his hands sliding to the back of Chu Wanning’s neck to close any remaining space between them. Chu Wanning should put a stop to this. Mo Ran can’t — not for him — it’s not possible — surely it can’t be possible? But Chu Wanning has always been a selfish man, and he’s especially selfish where Mo Ran is concerned. And he has imagined this, in fits of both shame and yearning, for several years now.
Chu Wanning can feel the blood in his face, hot and humming and alive. He can feel it in the tips of his fingers, where they’re tangled in the front of Mo Ran’s robes. He can feel it sitting heavy in his stomach like the pit of a ripe peach; he can feel it between his legs, a confusing throb of want and fear. Chu Wanning wants, and the moment he thinks it, his body reacts; molten, incendiary.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran murmurs against his mouth. He sounds wondering, a little wrecked. “Do you . . .”
Chu Wanning knows what he’s asking, and he can’t answer in words, not at the moment.
“I — I think it’s —” Chu Wanning says, meaning the curse, and Mo Ran reacts, maneuvering them so that he hovers over Chu Wanning.
“Shizun,” he says, pressing another kiss to his mouth. “Does it feel good? Do you like it?”
“Don’t ask me —” Chu Wanning chokes.
“I kept wanting to do this,” Mo Ran presses on recklessly, and Chu Wanning feels it again and again, that relentless stab of heat in his chest. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea — shizun, you have no idea what you do to me —”
Chu Wanning can feel himself weakening, all his protective barbs filed down. He’s never been spoken to in such a way, with such earnest desire, and he’s completely flummoxed for how to respond.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says again, and presses a kiss to his neck. His mouth moves up to kiss the corner of his mouth with a sweetness like honey. “Wanning.”
Chu Wanning had expected pain, when the curse broke — if it did. He had expected, perhaps, to pass out again. But it happens as gentle as a thawing. He feels the melt of it like a spring sun; a silent softening into damp earth, a place for something new to grow.
❅