Archive of Our Own

They’re five months into their idyllic tenure at Four Season’s Manor when Wen Kexing notices he’s getting plump. Since he’s been little more than skin and bones for most of his life, this is not at all an unwelcome change. It is, however, suspicious. Wen Kexing’s body typically resists weight gain like a fortress stonewalls an invading army, something that never failed to make his mother’s kunze brothers and sisters wet-eyed with dismay. Once, he overheard his jiujius bemoaning his “qianyuan build” and knew from the tone alone that it wasn’t a compliment.

Wen Kexing stares at his curved belly in the brass mirror, turning this way and that to better see the subtle swell. Are his hips a little wider? He thinks they might be.

“Do you think I’m getting fat, A-Xu?”

Zhou Zishu doesn’t even pause on his way out the door. “Yep,” he calls over his shoulder, before striding off to bat his poor disciple around the central courtyard for a few hours and call it training.

Wen Kexing pouts at the mirror before remembering no one is there to appreciate it. He huffs. Such an ungrateful husband he has. It’s an honest wonder that a lovely, refined kunze like himself ever agreed to marry such an ungrateful boar, but that’s what Wen Kexing gets for thinking with his cock. It’s an unfortunate truth that the truly untouchable beauties of the world all have terrible personalities, never having had to cultivate anything resembling affability, charm or personability to get their way. Zhou Zishu—though he would balk to be considered such—is no exception.

If Wen Kexing had a gold ingot for every time Zhou Zishu got them kicked out of an inn or teahouse for insulting the proprietor, the proprietor’s daughter, the proprietor’s best waiter, the proprietor’s favourite customer, the proprietor’s—

Well. Let’s just say they’d both be a lot richer if Zhou Zishu was getting paid to be a rude snob.

Wen Kexing strokes his belly thoughtfully. He has been eating more lately and exerting himself less. It would make sense if he was simply gaining weight, and yet…

He frowns.

His moon blood has been absent for most of the year. Though this is not at all unusual for a kunze of the valley—the stress and struggle of simply surviving in that hell pit is enough to stopper the heart, let alone a kunze’s moon blood—it is somewhat worrying considering how long he’s been a happily housed and well-fed kunze of a rich and noble (if terribly rude) qianyuan.

They have both been diligent with precautions. Wen Kexing takes a tincture of wild carrot nightly and Zhou Zishu never knots him and always pulls out when it is his turn to put Wen Kexing on his back. There should be nothing to worry about.

Wen Kexing puts his head in his hands. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t tell Zhou Zishu. It’s not a conscious decision, it just…is. He’s lost for words, or he assumes he is. He’s honestly never experienced the phenomenon before.

I’m not even sure I’m pregnant, he tells himself, which is true.

There’s no point in sharing my suspicion until I know for certain, he tells himself, which is…less true. Wen Kexing didn’t get pregnant by himself, after all, and the burden of knowledge should be shared among the guilty parties, even if the burden itself can’t be.

(He has honestly never resented Zhou Zishu’s lack of uterus more.)

Speaking of burdens…

Now that he’s aware of his changing body, he can’t seem to stop noticing it. The sore feet he was attributing to new shoes are clearly the result of swelling, the slight misalignment of his body as he moves through training forms is obviously due to his shifting centre mass, the redistribution of body weight—of weight inside his body—and not, as he’s previously assumed, the uneven courtyard stones tripping him up. The grannies at the market haven’t been selling him rancid vegetables, most vegetables just taste terrible to him now for some reason.

Wen Kexing thumbs his stomach absently. I wonder how many—

“You sick?”

“Hm?”

Zhou Zishu’s gaze flickers, pointedly, to where he’s rubbing his stomach like a child with a tummy ache. Wen Kexing squashes the instinct to snatch his hand back guiltily and waves him off instead. 

“I’m fine.”

Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes. “Sure you are. Don’t eat days-old leftover fish next time, stupid.”

It isn’t his fault he’d woken up this morning absolutely ravenous for fish, only to find their stores empty and the back lake seemingly fished dry overnight. Without the time or energy to go to town, what was he to do but chance a violent foodborne illness? It’s not like their children would have let him rest until he did. He isn’t sure how many pups he is(n’t) having, but he can hazard a guess based on the size of his aunts' and uncles’ litters. Before Healer Valley fell, there was no shortage of Gus. His yima and ayi had four children each in their litters and his jiujiu had five his first litter and six—six!—his second.

“What’re you smiling about?” Zhou Zishu grumbles.

Wen Kexing plants his chin on his palm and smiles wider.

“My gorgeous husband, of course,” he says, because it’s technically true, but also because it makes Zhou Zishu blush like a budding young maiden.

Zhou Zishu places a choice cut of chicken in his bowl and clicks his tongue. “Shut up and eat something that isn’t poisonous. I’ll make you a draught to ease the nausea.”

He sighs happily as he pops the chicken in his mouth.

“My husband is so good to me.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Zhou Zishu shifts his focus to Chengling, who gulps because, despite the many and varied ways in which he is an idiot, the boy has excellent survival instincts.

“Are you a boy or a winter sapling? Eat, now, or I’ll snap your twig arms in two.”

Chengling hurriedly begins shovelling chicken and rice into his mouth.

“Aiyah, slow down.” Wen Kexing wipes stray rice grains from Chengling’s cheek with the sleeve of his robe. “You’ll choke.”

“Good,” Zhou Zishu says, before completely contradicting himself and snapping, “Hey! What did your shishu say, huh?”

Chengling smiles bashfully around a mouthful of food and swallows carefully. “Sorry Shifu, Shishu,” he says, only slightly muffled.

Wen Kexing tucks the wispy strands of hair escaping from his ponytail behind his ear. Their Chengling is growing so quickly that he can hardly keep up. The boy will be fourteen soon, (might) be a big brother soon.

He imagines Chengling teaching a pup who is the splitting image of Zhou Zishu how to read and write, how to construct mechanical marvels and move like a cloud in the breeze. He imagines their family clustered together around the sect dining table in Cloud Breeze Pavilion, eating and laughing together, like he vaguely remembers from the halcyon days of his childhood when the Zhen's little house was a thoroughfare for innumerable aunties and uncles and cousins, generations removed from his parents.

Chengling tilts into his touch, eyes happy crescents as Wen Kexing strokes his downy head. Zhou Zishu huffs at them and complains that he’s spoiling the boy, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling.

He never thought he’d have this again.

Wen Kexing sniffs and excuses himself from the table before he can completely embarrass himself. He ignores the whispers that follow him out the door.

Zhou Zishu finds him later.

“What’re you hiding up there for?”

“Not hiding,” says Wen Kexing, who is, in fact, hiding.

Zhou Zishu makes a doubting noise and hoists himself into the branches of the cherry tree to sit beside him. Their thighs press together, hot through several layers of robes, and he shivers.

“C’mere,” Zhou Zishu says gruffly, slipping an arm around Wen Kexing’s shoulders and tugging until he’s resting with his cheek pressed against his husband’s shoulder. Wen Kexing slumps into his arms with a relieved sigh, enjoying his warmth and solidity, the novelty of closeness. It’s been half a year since they first kissed at Longyuan Cabinet, nearly as many months since they went to bed together for the first time, and this—them—still feels novel. In the privacy of his black and twisted mind Wen Kexing wonders how much longer it can last. Four Seasons Manor feels like a place trapped in time, removed from the wider world, but it isn’t. The Book of Ghosts is circulating. The hounds are coming, the snakes not far behind. In truth, Wen Kexing is still a boy clinging to a threadbare rope, beset by beasts, fooling himself into thinking his life will be sweet as honey.

Below them, visible over the fence, Chengling practices his forms diligently, a furrow carving a canyon in his brow, the mirror of his shifu. Watching him, Wen Kexing feels an inexplicable jolt of fear. Every day, the boy improves. Wen Kexing should be proud—and he is! He’s also terrified for him. Chengling is a harmless, helpless little boy no longer. There will be people in the world—martial artists with leagues more talent and experience—who will look at their brave little boy and see a fighter, an unrighteous throat to slash, an enemy to torment and kill; all because of that damn rhyme, that damn Book of Ghosts.

If I had never—

Zhou Zishu raps him on the head. “Whatever nonsense you’re thinking, stop it.”

He puts on a pout. “A-Xu, you always assume I’m thinking nonsense. How cruel my husband is to slander his wife so.”

Zhou Zishu clutches him closer. “Hm, in that case, my wife is free to correct me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Wen Kexing lies, and tastes ashes on his tongue.

“Of course it does.” He hesitates, looking shy in that delightfully constipated way of his. “You matter. To me.”

What a kind qianyuan he has found. No one would believe it of Zhou Zishu, but it would still be true. Wen Kexing smiles helplessly, a hopelessly gooey warmth in his chest. Truly, his husband cares far too much for a cretin like him to know what to do with.

“If you must know, I was considering what to do about the stores.”

His brow furrows. “The kitchen is well stocked.”

“No, the emergency stores. We don’t want anyone going hungry if we’re snowed-in or unable to go to town for supplies.”

Or under siege by an army of jianghu dogs.

Zhou Zishu looks surprised, then sceptical, then suspicious. “It’s spring, Lao Wen, and it’s just the three of us here. I can’t see us fostering a generation of disciples any time soon, so I hardly think starvation will become a concern. What’s this really about?”

Wen Kexing shrugs out of his embrace, suddenly annoyed.

“I just said, didn’t I? I just think it’s better to be overprepared than underprepared, that’s all. I’m sure the Zhangs didn’t expect an attack either. We’ve seen to our defences, but what about our provisions?”

He struggles to put his fear into words, to talk around the secret of his identity and the danger he is putting them both in, just by being in their lives. If it weren’t for…

His hand skims his stomach. He swallows.

Zhou Zishu’s eyes sharpen. “Is there any particular reason you think we should be prepared for a siege, Lao Wen?”

He laughs; an ugly, ghostly sound. “Do I need a reason to expect an attack, A-Xu?”

Zhou Zishu looks sorry to have brought it up and Wen Kexing wants to laugh, to scream. The worst part of being loved by Zhou Zishu is knowing how easy his love makes him to manipulate; knowing with soul-deep certainty how good he is and how rotten you are, how unworthy of that love.

“We’re safe here.” He catches Wen Kexing’s hand, keeps it, looks deep into his eyes. “You’re safe here. You know that…don’t you?”

Suddenly, he’s crying; great, hiccupping sobs that can’t be anything but alarming to a man as stoic as Zhou Zishu. But because he’s his soulmate and much much too good for him, Zhou Zishu pulls him into his arms anyway, lets him sob his heart out into his second-best robes and cling with all the strength of his monkey limbs.

Zhou Zishu rests his cheek on his head and cradles him like a child.

As Zhou Zishu kisses the top of his head and spins promises of forever into words, he wonders what terrible thing his noble A-Xu must have done in a past life to deserve a plague like Wen Kexing.

The next few weeks are…strange. Not bad, not good, just odd. He is out of sorts, a stranger to his body. He has been slim, wiry and strong all his life, but there is a thickness to him now, a noticeable dissonance between the swanlike elegance of his neck and the puffiness of his face and chest. His nipples are always sore and swollen red like they’ve been stung by bees. He is forced to wear his softest silk underclothes each day or risk wincing at every glancing brush of fabric. Since he is a practical man by virtue of circumstance if not by heart, he only has enough such layers to get him through two days before he must retreat to the river in secret to scrub the grime and slick and, most bizarrely of all, milk, from his undergarments. Zhou Zishu has been sleeping alone for weeks, ever since Wen Kexing’s body decided that a restful night’s sleep was a relic of the past, but it still takes some manoeuvring to do it behind Zhou Zishu’s back. Somehow, he manages it. Though it baffles him, his husband has been remarkably willing to let Wen Kexing do as he pleases without the suspicious scrutiny that marked their relationship prior to Longyuan Cabinet.

When he wakes alone one morning with wet undergarments and bedding, somehow leaking from both the ass and chest, he decides enough is enough. He can’t be sore, chafed and wet. At least one of those things has to change or he really will throw a fit. He waits until Zhou Zishu and Chengling are preoccupied with morning training before sneaking off to the apothecary at the back of the manor. He searches the shelves for books about pregnancy but can only find ones about infant and children’s medicine. He plucks one off the shelf, hopeful there might be some crossover between the two subjects and sits at the table by the window to read.

Though he finds nothing that would help limit his body’s enthusiastic response to pregnancy, he finds himself engrossed nonetheless and easily whiles away the morning. Once finished, he decides he might as well keep reading. He has nothing to do today, and the apothecary has a surprisingly robust library of paediatric texts for a martial sect.

He only realises he’s fallen asleep when someone wakes him.

“Having fun?” Zhou Zishu asks, smiling strangely.

Wen Kexing blinks at him sleepily, admiring the way the setting sun gilds his husband’s face.

“Mmhmm,” he hums before jerking upright and looking out the window, perplexed. “Did I sleep the whole day?”

“Apparently.”

Zhou Zishu plucks the book from his hands: The Weaning Child. He thumbs the cover, a pensive look on his face.

Wen Kexing fists the front of his own robes, stomach twisting.

“I wanted kids,” Zhou Zishu says, almost too quiet to hear, “before.”

Before Tian Chuang, before the nails.

Wen Kexing understands. He also wanted things, before.

“I understand.”

Zhou Zishu searches his eyes. “Do you?”

He tries on a smile and prays it stays, that it looks genuine. “We’re different people, now. The things we wanted…” His hand grazes his belly. His chin wobbles. He drops it immediately so it won’t be seen. “Those dreams belong to other men, now.”

Better men, in Wen Kexing’s case.

Silence, then a sigh. Zhou Zishu sits beside him and bumps their shoulders together. He’s quiet for a long time before he speaks.

“My friends will arrive within a month. I don’t know if they can save me and I won’t make any promises, but what I know for certain is this: they will try their hardest to keep me on this earth if that is where I wish to be.” Zhou Zishu takes his chin and lifts it until their eyes meet. “So I need to know, do you want me here?”

He would bolt upright if not for the firm grip on his chin. He startles anyway, eyes widening.

“A-Xu! How could you ask that? Surely you know I want you to live.” He clutches fretfully at Zhou Zishu’s hands. “It is my dearest wish in the world.”

“Of course I know that. And before you say it, I know you love me and desire me…but do you want me here, with you, now? Because it seems like you want to be alone.” He strokes his cheek, places a finger over his lips when Wen Kexing tries to interject. “Let me speak, please. Do you want to leave, Lao Wen? Do you want me to leave? Tell me, please, because I don’t know how else to explain why you’re pulling away from me, why you keep pulling away, despite everything we’ve been through together.”

Wen Kexing swallows, alarm tightening his throat, making speech impossible for several seconds. He forces himself to take slow breaths and waits for the tightness to ease before speaking. He plans to reassure Zhou Zishu that it’s not his fault, it's just Wen Kexing’s stupid mind and stupider body mucking everything up, but instead what comes out is: “I’m pregnant.”

“I know,” Zhou Zishu says calmly.

His brain blanks.

“You…know.”

“Lao Wen, I’m a spy and you’re not a subtle man.” When Wen Kexing continues to look baffled, his brows climb incredulously. “I offered to sleep separately because you needed the bed to flap around like a squid all night, I make you draughts for your nausea and I comfort you when you cry—which is all the time, lately. You must have suspected I knew.”

“I…” He looks away. “I guess I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

Zhou Zishu strokes his knuckles. “Do you want this?”

It doesn’t matter what I want. It never has.

He only realises he’s said it out loud when Zhou Zishu’s face crumples and his eyes glisten. “Lao Wen.”

Zhou Zishu grabs his wrist before he can bolt. Wen Kexing tenses.

“If you don’t want us—me, the pregnancy, all of it—then say it. I will understand.” His grip firms, becomes nearly crushing. “But if you’re running because you think you’re not worthy of a family then I’m going to need you to sit back down and listen to me, now, because your shixiong has something to say.”

Wen Kexing growls and wrenches his wrist out of his grip. He rounds on Zhou Zishu, teeth bared. “I’ve told you a dozen times, I’m not that boy anymore, Zhou Zishu, so if you’re just waiting around for him to show up—

“Shut up,” Zhou Zishu snaps, rising to his feet. “Just shut up about that. I know your name is no longer Zhen Yan. I know you buried a part of yourself with your parents and that part of you sleeps with them. I know you have no intention of becoming a healer or collecting merits or being a noble hero of the jianghu like your parents intended.

“Lao Wen, that was your parents dream for you. It died with them. That’s not what I want, it’s just what you think I want.” He cups Wen Kexing’s damp cheeks, gazes into his red eyes with infinite compassion. “I want you, just as you are.”

Wen Kexing shakes his head frantically. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He kisses Wen Kexing softly, heedless of his tears. “How many ways must I tell you I love you before you believe me? Silly brat.”

He’s startled into a laugh, which quickly turns into a sob when he feels what can only be described as a punch to the gut from inside his gut. The first punch is followed by a couple more. Everyone wants to show him he’s an idiot today, apparently.

“Our children must agree with you. They’ve never punched me before.”

Zhou Zishu stares at his belly, openly dumfounded. It’s such a charming look on him that Wen Kexing can only smile the smile of the truly besotted. How could he ever want to leave this man? How could this man think he would ever want to leave?

“Here.” He places Zhou Zishu’s hand on his stomach. In one of the books, he read that gestating infants are often more active for their sire to facilitate the development of an emotional bond. Sure enough, the moment he is skin-to-skin, close enough to feel, scent, the kids are wriggling happily, pushing against their father’s palm.

Zhou Zishu swallows, eyes wide and shiny as saucers. “How many…”

“No idea. My auties had four.”

“Four…”

To his surprise, Zhou Zishu doesn’t seem displeased by the idea, merely startled.

He’s going to be an incredible father.

“I guess it’s a good thing your shaman friend is coming. I’m not sure I could have trusted Chengling to deliver our pups when it’s time. He’ll make a fine assistant, though, if he’s up to it.”

Zhou Zishu’s head snaps up. He looks painfully hopeful. “You want them? You’ll stay?”

Wen Kexing presses their foreheads together, heart pounding.

“I would remain by your side, forever, if you would have me.”

Zhou Zishu’s answering smile is blinding, and Wen Kexing allows himself to get swept up in the kiss, to be guided onto his back amongst the cushions. It’s been too long since he had his husband’s mouth, since he felt him between his legs. They rock together slowly, carefully, mindful of his stomach and Zhou Zishu’s failing senses. Despite his husband’s reluctance to rouse, Wen Kexing finds he enjoys the lazy, hazy quality of their fucking. He’s clearly eager despite his difficulties and Wen Kexing never loved anything in bed as much as he loves being desired.

Shuddering with the aftershocks of his third orgasm, Wen Kexing sighs and murmurs into his ear. “Will you knot me this time, husband?”

Zhou Zishu’s breath hitches. “There would be no point.”

“Silly qianyuan. The point is that I want it.”

He clenches, pointedly, snags Zhou Zishu’s plump red lower lip between his teeth and teases it. Zhou Zishu nips back and kisses him, hard.

“Fine, but don’t blame me if your back gets sore.”

They remain locked together until the sun begins to meld with the horizon, not that either of them mind. Zhou Zishu makes some token complaints about having to roll over and bear the burden of Wen Kexing’s poor decisions, but he seems happy enough to hold him close and stroke his back. Occasionally, his hand ventures between them to pet his belly and Wen Kexing can hear his mind working.

“What is it?”

For a moment, Zhou Zishu is silent. Then, “Have you thought about names?”

He huffs. “I haven’t been thinking about much at all, A-Xu.”

“Typical. I suppose I’m going to have to do all the work, hm?”

He snuggles closer and inhales the heady scent of Zhou Zishu’s neck. From the moment they met as children, he smelled intriguing and compelling, but now, matured and flushed with exertion, he smells positively divine. 

“My A-Xu is so smart, so wise and talented and capable. I know he will make the best decisions.”

“Mmhmm. You just don’t want to do any work.”

“My husband spoils me. Is it any wonder that I have becomes accustomed to a life of ease?”

Zhou Zishu softens. When he speaks, his voice is tender. “If I had my way, you would never leave this place except by my side.”

Wen Kexing strokes his cheek. “If I had my way, you would never leave at all.”

As Zhou Zishu kisses him again, Wen Kexing sends out a quick prayer: Die, Niang, please help A-Xu’s friends reach us safely and swiftly. Guide this young shaman’s hands and help him save my beloved.

Ye Baiyi is coming, and when he does…

At least, if the worst happens, the children will have their father.

To Wen Kexing’s surprise, Ye Baiyi does not immediately descend on them like a pissed off stormfront. In fact, the next few weeks are obscenely peaceful. Songbirds begin roosting outside his window and wake him each morning with a glorious chorus, at which time Zhou Zishu will slip back into the room and into his bed for a quick fuck, a cuddle and a chat, or both. Zhou Zishu’s favourite topic of complaint lately is Chengling, who is apparently distracting, annoying and undisciplined in ways that defy logic and correction.

Wen Kexing can’t help but be amused. In many ways, Zhou Zishu is the wisest person he has ever known. In others... “He’s just excited about the babies. He’s never been a big brother before.”

“That’s no excuse to be lazy.”

He could point out that between training six hours a day, helping them repair and maintain the manor, running to town for supplies, and helping him with the harvesting, Chengling is also studying to help deliver the babies, acting as his personal servant when pregnancy makes certain aspects of cooking, dressing or bathing difficult, and jumping at Zhou Zishu’s every barked command, but he suspects the laundry list of tasks won’t impress Zhou Zishu. If he is to be believed, Qin Huaizhang’s little sage was bustling from dawn to dusk, seven days per week, and happily so. He can’t imagine doing half of that but clearly he has a different definition of laziness than these two workhorses.

Eventually, even the incredibly lazy Wen Kexing must lever himself—carefully!—out of bed and waddle his way to the kitchen. It is, unfortunately, a waddle now. Though his stomach can be obscured with the right draping robe, the moment he wears anything secure across the chest and without a loose overrobe, it becomes apparent that he is either extremely fat or extremely pregnant.

He's sweating by the time he reaches the kitchen. Thankfully, Chengling is waiting for him with a stool and a glass of icy water.

He grunts his way to a seated position and takes the water gratefully. He pinches Chengling’s smooth red cheek in thanks. “Don’t tell your shifu, but you’re my favourite.”

“Shishu,” he groans, jerking out of his grip, but he’s smiling. “You’re not supposed to say that. What if Shifu’s eavesdropping?”

“So what if I am? Can I not eavesdrop in my own manor?” Zhou Zishu strides into the kitchen and levels Chengling an unimpressed look. “Who would dare hide information from my ears? Certainly not my loyal disciple who should be training rather than running his mouth.”

“Yes, Shifu!” Chengling yelps, legging it towards the training yard.

“Don’t forget your breakfast!” Wen Kexing yells after him.

“I already ate!”

His voice is already a tinny, far away thing. Inexplicably, Wen Kexing feels his chest clench.

“He’ll surpass us both, one day,” Zhou Zishu says, sounding proud.

He hums his agreement. “Do you think he’ll make us grandparents before our children are grown?”

“I hope not. We’ll need to keep the babysitter around as long as possible.”

Wen Kexing laughs. He’s about to tease him, something about what they might be doing to need a regular babysitter, when there's a commotion at the front gate.

“Stay here,” Zhou Zishu orders and kicks off over the rooftops before Wen Kexing can object.

“I’m not a potted plant,” Wen Kexing mutters to himself, kicking petulantly at his chair. Then, because he’s never once stayed where he’s put, he follows Zhou Zishu—covertly, of course.

Before he even touches down in the front courtyard, he knows it is Ye Baiyi. His qi is a stormfront, easily perceivably when roused, and he is certainly that. The old monster could never be accused of lacking dramatic flair.

By the time he enters the courtyard, Ye Baiyi has already unsheathed his weapon. The great broadsword is held off the side in a defensive grip. The immortal’s severe face is contorted by anger. He gesticulates passionately at Zhou Zishu, where the latter stands between him and entry to the heart of the manor. Wen Kexing is too far away to hear what they’re saying, but he can hazard a guess. Zhou Zishu has, surprisingly, also unsheathed his sword. Even more surprisingly, he’s using an offensive grip.

Don’t do anything stupid, A-Xu. Not for me.

For weeks, he has considered his options, what he will say to the immortal, how he will beg—not for his life—but for his children’s lives. All that planning goes out the door the moment he sees Chengling rushing towards him, clutching his bloody arm.

He sees Chengling, sees the blood, sees red.

Something inside him roars.

He must black out because the next thing he knows, he’s back in bed, staring up at possibly the most beautiful man he has ever seen (who is not his A-Xu).

“Hello,” the man says, smiling. “You must be confused. I’m Jing Beiyuan, this is Wu Xi,” he points to a severe-looking man in black, standing by his bed, “and you’ve been unconscious for two days.”

“Days?” Wen Kexing croaks. “What the hell happened?”

“I did,” Ye Baiyi says, shortly.

The immortal strides over to his bed, flicking his sleeves back, and Wen Kexing curls over his belly defensively, a growl building in his throat.

Ye Baiyi clicks his tongue, looking vaguely annoyed, but no longer murderous. “Calm down, brat. I’m not going to hurt you or the hellions in your belly.”

Strangely, Wen Kexing believes him. Still…

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you make some kind of vow to kill me?”

Ye Baiyi looks out the window. “My vow was to kill the evil of Ghost Valley.”

Incredulously, “And you don’t believe I qualify? I skinned my predecessor alive, you know. I spread rumours, chaos. I killed, revelled in it.”

Vaguely, he registers Jing Beiyuan and his companion leaving, but most of his attention is reserved for Ye Baiyi, who looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to pat Wen Kexing on the head or wring his neck. He settles for huffing.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Sometimes. When they deserved it.”

Ye Baiyi considers him. “I also feel satisfaction when I vanquish a foe. Should I kneel and let Zhou Zishu behead me with my own sword, too?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re an immortal, righteous. You’ve done everything right in your life. You go out of your way to do good, to pay your debts and live by your word.” His hands clench into fists. “I give my word to no one. I keep no oaths and forsake my debts daily. Any good I’ve done has been accidental or driven by self-interest.

“I’m not good, Ye Baiyi. So if you’re standing here, trying to find a reason not to kill me because I’m fucking pregnant, don’t bother. After the kids are born, I’ll give myself up—on one condition.”

Ye Baiyi raises an eyebrow. He’s enviably stone-faced, whereas Wen Kexing can feel himself getting redder and more misty-eyed by the minute.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“No one can know you killed me. It must look like I died in an accident of some kind. A-Xu…he must think it’s accidental.”

“Why would that matter? You’ll be dead either way.”

“Because I can’t leave him, and I can’t stay without putting him and my children in danger.” He rests his hand on his belly and feels for them, his kids. Even if they’re not kicking, he can sense them in there, curled together like koi. “If you kill me, it won’t matter what I wanted, what’s best for the kids, he’ll kill himself trying to kill you. If you don’t kill me, if you let me live, the jianghu mob will hunt me down, hunt our children down.” His hands fist the bedsheets. “I will not put my children through what I went through, do you understand? You must kill me.”

“No.”

“…What?”

“Are you deaf or just stupid? I said no, brat.”

Wen Kexing could pull his hair out, he honestly could.

“Why!? You don’t like me. You hate me.”

“I hate songs that go on too long, people who walk slowly in the middle of the street and noodle shops with small bowls. You get on my nerves because, as previously stated, you are a fucking brat who never learned any manners because you were raised in hell on earth.”

Ye Baiyi huffs and pulls a chair up next to the bed. “Listen brat, because I’m only going to say this once: what happened to you was not your fault, the things you did to survive are not your fault, the revenge you desire is yours by right. Should you have skinned your predecessor alive, spread false treasure, and started a rumour that lit a powder keg of old jianghu resentments? I don’t know and I don't care, and neither should you.

“Who can pass judgement on either of us? For sixty years, I have secluded myself from the world, subsisting on snow and ice, alone but for the wind. For decades, despite the odds, you grew in the putrid soil you were tossed in, despite nearly everyone trying to uproot you. None of those fools have lived your life or mine, none of them know our struggles. How dare they judge you, damn you? If they do, they will be damning me with the same breath.”

“We’re not the same, Ye Baiyi,” Wen Kexing says quietly.

“No. You earned your power through blood, struggle and filial responsibility. I lucked into mine.”

The immortal stands abruptly and brushes down his robes.

Wen Kexing watches him, head spinning. “I feel like I should thank you, but I don’t want to.”

Ye Baiyi shudders. Or pretends to. It’s hard to tell when he’s messing with you and when he’s being serious. “Good. Trust that instinct. I’m going to let your husband in. I’m sure he’s making those friends of his wish they’d stayed in Nanjiang.”

Ye Baiyi sweeps out of the room, and Wen Kexing can only watch him leave. The minute he’s gone, Zhou Zishu is entering, Chengling darting under his arm like a fish and running to his bedside. The boy immediately climbs into bed and makes himself comfortable under Wen Kexing’s arm.

He sends Zhou Zishu an alarmed look.

“He knows,” Zhou Zishu says, smiling, like that isn’t the sentence most likely to give him a heart attack.

He looks cautiously at Chengling, who stares up at him with the wide, compassionate eyes of his soft-hearted shifu. “Shifu and Ye-qianbei explained everything. I understand, Shishu, I promise. Your family died, and you were left all alone, just like me.” He sniffs. “But you didn’t have a shifu and shishu to take care of you, you had to take care of yourself and Xiang-jiejie.”

His throat clenches. This silly child. He should know better than to trust the word of a ghost. He glances at Zhou Zishu, who is still smiling, like everything is alright in the world, as though it hasn’t been turned upside down and inside out within the space of a day. 

“Whatever my reasons, I still killed your family, Chengling.”

Chengling shakes his head, frowning. “Scorpion killed my family, whoever wants the glazed armour killed my family to get it. That’s not you.” He hugs Wen Kexing, careful of his belly; he drops a quick kiss there and Wen Kexing’s heart clenches. “You’re my shishu who loves me. You would never hurt me for real. You proved that with Ye-qianbei. You prove it every day.”

The boy noses into his neck and huffs greedily. He draws Wen Kexing’s wrist to his neck and stares up at him with big, hopeful eyes until he relents and begins to scent mark him the way he always refused to, before. It seemed like a line you didn’t cross with the boy who’s family you murdered, no matter how much you wanted to. I never thought I would get to have this…

Overwhelmed, Wen Kexing presses a kiss to his little idiot’s head and shares a wobbly smile with Zhou Zishu over it. Then Chengling’s words register.

“Wait, what happened with the old goat?”

“You know, when you went berserk,” Chengling says, offhand, like kunzes going berserk is a thing that happens every day and not an extremely rare psychosocial phenomenon.

“I did not.”

“Mmhmm, you did. Shifu and I had to pull you off him.” Chengling looks bashful. “It’s, uh, my fault. I tripped during training and cut my arm. You must have seen it and assumed Ye-qianbei attacked me. If I had just cleaned up the blood before—

“Did I hurt him badly or something?” Wen Kexing isn’t worried about the old tortoise, that would be ridiculous, but… “He didn’t seem injured when we spoke.”

Zhou Zishu looks amused, of all things.

“He heals quickly.” Yep, that’s definitely a smirk. “He did have to borrow robes, though.”

Wen Kexing tries to imagine himself getting the upper hand on Ye Baiyi long enough to beat him bloody and can’t picture it. Though he is often accused of being a peacock, he knows his skills, his qi. Ordinarily, they would not have been enough to overcome an immortal of Ye Baiyi’s strength. The man spent sixty years cultivating, alone, on a mountain. Wen Kexing may be a prodigy, but he is still a mortal man in his twenties. The gap between their skill levels is about as large as between him and Chengling.

He heaves a sigh, truly aggrieved. “How cruel fate is to deny me such sweet memories.”

Chengling giggles into his neck and Zhou Zishu shakes his head.

“A-Xu, you’re so far away.” He pouts

Zhou Zishu comes willingly to nestle at his side. He tucks them both under his arm, kisses Wen Kexing’s temple, strokes the top of Chengling’s head.

Against Wen Kexing’s temple, he murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Wen Kexing can only agree.  

It’s not until later that he remembers to ask about the elephant in the room.

“So…you know?”

Chengling is snoozing beside them, tucked into Wen Kexing’s arms like a baby. It should be funny, as tall and gangly as he’s getting, but it's merely endearing.

“That you’re the Ghost Valley Master?” From tone alone, he knows Zhou Zishu thinks the question is stupid. He peers up at him and yep, that’s his ‘you’re an idiot’ face. “You’re an idiot. I’ve known since we left Longyuan Cabinet. I already thought you were a ghost or a scorpion. Figuring out that you’re the ghost didn’t change anything.”

“You’re really okay with the evilest of all evil ghosts warming your bed, having…”

Having your children.

“As long as you’re okay with the shadow monster of imperial city warming your bed, siring your children.” He thumbs Wen Kexing’s cheek. “Neither of us have lived righteous lives, zhiji. You forget that, I think.”

“My A-Xu is so good,” he whispers.

“To you,” he refutes, calmly. “Do you think the families I slaughtered in the night would call me good if they were alive to confront me today?”

“That’s—

“It’s not different. They would call me evil, my love, and they would be right to do so. I have done truly despicable things in the name of peace. That I had my justifications, my orders, doesn’t change what I have done.”

“You’re not evil, A-Xu. That prince coerced you, made you believe in his vision for a better world and offered sanctuary for your sect. You had no choice.”

“I could have chosen to fight, to keep my principles rather than betray them. For ten years, I shamed my shifu.” He nuzzles Wen Kexing’s hair, gazes at the sleeping Chengling with soft eyes. “I can only hope that this is enough to begin making amends.”

“Do you think this is enough, truly?” Wen Kexing asks. Living out their lives as teachers and parents doesn’t seem like much of a punishment.

“I don’t know, but I’m hopeful.” Zhou Zishu smiles, warm and brilliant, and rests his cheek against his head. “I’m hopeful.”  

Wen Kexing feels as though a weight has been removed from his chest. Finally, there are no more secrets between them.

Maybe, just maybe, he can let himself have this.

“My A-Xu is so wise.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Da Wu, when Wen Kexing finally gets to meet him properly, turns out to be an incredibly incisive and gifted healer. His treatment and recovery plan is a thing of beauty. His parents would have jumped at the chance to sit down with him and pick his brain. Wen Kexing, unfilial son that he is, can only ask questions that would have been obvious to Zhen Yan.

Da Wu answers them all patiently, giving specific answers when he can and being honest when he can’t.

“The surgery will be difficult. Even if Zhou Zishu lives, the recovery will be long and arduous. It may take years before Zhou Zishu is back at his former strength, if such heights are even within reach.”

“I know the risks,” Zhou Zishu says calmly, while Wen Kexing’s heart tries its hardest to beat out of his chest. So many ifs… “After the children are born, we can—

“After?” Wen Kexing says, incredulous. “No, we do it now. You can barely…”

Barely taste anything, feel anything. Soon, his hearing and sight will be gone too. When their children are born, Wen Kexing wants him to be able to see them, touch them, scent them. He wants his A-Xu fully present, at his side, happy and healthy, where he belongs.

Zhou Zishu and Da Wu exchange a look that he instantly hates.

“Lao Wen, I want to meet our children.”

He frowns. “I know, that’s why I’m—

“Wen Kexing, if I die during the surgery or if I don’t wake up afterwards, I want to have at least seen them.”

He loses his breath. “You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know—

“I do. I won’t let you. I’ll—

“What? Anything you could do to help me right now would endanger the children. It’s not just you and me anymore, zhiji. We have to think about what’s best for them, for Chengling.”

“You can’t ask me to let you die.”

“I’m asking you to save our children, to make sure they come into this world safely and live good lives.”

“I won’t just—

“You two idiots are so dramatic,” Ye Baiyi cuts in from where he’s leaning up against the door jam. “No one is dying before me, so you can both shut up.”

He addresses Da Wu. “I will lend you my qi for the procedure and give the brat supplements to speed up his recovery. If I maintain the integrity of his meridians, you will be able to mitigate the damage as you work.”

Da Wu bows. “That would be most helpful, Immortal Ye, but even your formidable strength may not be enough to—

“It will,” he says, brooking no argument.

Zhou Zishu looks unsure. “I still think we should wait until—

Wen Kexing rounds on his husband. “Until what? Until you can sense nothing at all, not even your children in your arms? The children won’t be born for another month, at least. Who knows how much you will have deteriorated by then. If Ye Baiyi says he will do it, then he will do it. There’s no point in delaying this any further.”

“For once, the brat and I are in agreement.”

Zhou Zishu looks between them and sighs. “I guess it’s been decided.” He looks to Da Wu. “How long do you need to prepare?”

“I always come prepared. I only need to talk Immortal Ye through the procedure and give us both enough time to build and refine the requisite qi. We can begin tomorrow morning if you wish.”

Zhou Zishu looks between them, directing an overwhelmed look at Jing Beiyuan, who has been silent and enviably equanimous all this time. Now, however, he smiles. Zhou Zishu gives his friend a wobbly smile in return before looking at Wen Kexing.

“I wish,” Zhou Zishu says quietly.

Wen Kexing threads their fingers together. Zhou Zishu squeezes his hand.

“Wish granted, kid,” Ye Baiyi says.

For once, the old curmudgeon is smiling. For once, Wen Kexing says nothing about it.

“Please?” Zhou Zishu begs. He doesn’t often break out the puppy dog eyes, but when he does Wen Kexing is incapable of denying him anything. Unfortunately for him, this time is not like all the others.

“You’re not saying goodbye to our kids.”

“I just want to talk to them for a bit," he wheedles.

“To say goodbye.”

“To tell them I love them, to be good for their mother.”

“Because you think you’re going to die.”

Zhou Zishu huffs. “I’m not going to pretend it’s not possible, Lao Wen.”

“And I’m not going to let you go into this surgery without some unfinished business.” Wen Kexing pets his husband’s soft hair, lets him kiss his stomach, and stroke the skin below his belly button where their children are most active. “You need to come back to us, zhiji.”

“Lao Wen, I don’t need a reason to come back to you.” Zhou Zishu rests his chin on his stomach. “You know I'll try my hardest.”

“You seem awfully fixated on death for a man who plans on living,” Wen Kexing says because it’s the truth and because Zhou Zishu needs to understand how he sounds. Even if he’s unaware of it, it’s clear that a part of Zhou Zishu—perhaps the largest part—believes he’s not walking away from Da Wu’s table.

They are quiet for a long time. They only have an hour until the surgery. Already, Da Wu has been in and out several times, preparing Zhou Zishu’s meridians with acupuncture and feeding him tinctures designed to supress his qi and regulate what remains. In Wen Kexing’s arms, he is as weak as a mundane man.

Wen Kexing strokes his hair, considering. “You can say hello, tell them you love them, that you’ll see them in a couple of days.”

“Hmm, I’ll take it,” Zhou Zishu says, and proceeds to do just that.

Before they part for the surgery, Wen Kexing tells him, “You’re naming them, by the way.”

Zhou Zishu goes owl eyed. “What?”

"We talked about this already."

"I didn't think you were serious."

“I’ve carried them all these months. I don’t want to do any more work, so you’re naming them.”

“But if I don't wake up—

“Then they will forever be known as the freaks without names.” Zhou Zishu studies his face, checking to see if he’s serious. He is. He kisses Zhou Zishu on the nose, delighting in his look of bafflement. “Dream up some good names while you’re under, will you?”

Zhou Zishu rises onto his toes and kisses his forehead, his lips. “Anything for my wife.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Da Wu and Ye Baiyi are five hours into a twelve hour surgery when Wen Kexing notices he’s having contractions.

“Huh,” he says.

“Hm?” says Jing Beiyuan. He’s sitting opposite Wen Kexing in the family courtyard, surveying the go board set between them like it’s an amusing, if not terribly interesting, relic of a lesser species. Wen Kexing was annoyed by his flippancy until he realised the lackadaisical attitude concealed a mind like a steel trap, then he was intrigued. Despite his apparent disinterest in the game, Jing Beiyuan has already captured a fifth of Wen Kexing’s stones and is on track to win what is amounting to an embarrassingly short game.

“Oh, nothing, just reconciling myself to my inevitable loss.”

Jing Beiyuan huffs a laugh. “Wen-gongzi is a good player.”

“Wen-gongzi is getting his ass kicked.”

This gets him a true laugh. “Ah, I can see why Zishu likes you.”

“I am funny,” he agrees.

“You’re honest,” he looks up slyly, “when it suits you.”

This time, it’s Wen Kexing’s turn to laugh.

“Ah, I think I’ll go see what A-Xu’s silly disciple is up to.”

“Hm? We’re not finished the game.”

Wen Kexing snorts. “You won three turns ago. Help yourself to the wine cellar while I’m gone.” He tosses Jing Beiyuan the key. He fumbles it with a yelp. Well, at least there’s one thing he’s not great at. “You may have to amuse yourself for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll probably need to nap afterwards.”

Jing Beiyuan waves him off. He twirls the key around his finger, giving him a catlike smile. “Ah, Wen-gongzi, I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time.”

Another contraction. It is mild, barely noticeable.

He places his hand on his stomach as he walks and chides the babies, “Slow down! Don’t you know your father's in surgery? Aiyah, you have your mother’s sense for dramatic timing, I see.”

He crosses the family courtyard and knocks lightly on Chengling’s door. The boy was given the day off, but he doubts the little idiot took it. Sometimes, he truly bemoans the fact that the boy inherited his shifu’s work ethic. It can’t be good for the kid to always be working. Look how Zhou Zishu turned out. So serious!

Sure enough, when Chengling answers the door, there’s sweat on his brow.

Wen Kexing raises an eyebrow at him, says, “Chengling.”

He smiles guiltily. “I was just doing warmups, Shishu, nothing strenuous.”

“You’re sweating.”

He bites his lip. “I was doing Shifu’s warmups,” he admits.

Wen Kexing shakes his head and sighs. “What am I to do with you. Are you going to pass this nonsense on to your didis and meimeis then?”

Chengling brightens, the way he always does when they bring up the babies.

“No, Shishu,” he says dutifully, “I know you will shave my head if I dare.”

“I’ll do worse than that. I’ll let your Shifu deal with you.”

Because he is a smart boy when it counts, Chengling nods hurriedly. “Yes, Shishu. I know, Shishu.”

“Excellent. Now be a good boy and help me fill the bathtub.”

“Is your back sore again, Shishu?”

“Oh, yes. It always is.”

Chengling looks legitimately upset at that and Wen Kexing is forced to ruffle his hair. “Pregnancy isn’t easy, boy.” He smirks, raising his eyebrows. “You should keep that in mind for the future.”

Chengling flushes. “Trust me, Shishu, I am.”

He rushes off to fill the rub in the master’s quarters and Wen Kexing allows himself to take a meandering walk around the manor. A full circuit takes a half hour if one includes the orchards, and if he’s going to be stuck inside, birthing these brats for the next few days, he’s going to enjoy the sunshine on his face and the smell of flowers on the breeze while he can.

It takes only a few minutes to realise that something is wrong. Instead of blossoms on the wind, he smells horse and iron, the suppressed scents of many qianyuan, coming from the north.

He buries his fear, his devastation. There's no time for any of that.

He climbs the tallest nearby tree and sweeps the grounds. Instead of an army of mismatched sect uniforms marching up the path, he sees a swarm of black. They are several li away, but even at a distance their affiliation is clear.

It is not Wen Kexing’s past returning to haunt them, but Zhou Zishu’s.

He thinks of his zhiji, laid out and vulnerable on Da Wu’s operating table, clinging to life by the strength of Ye Baiyi and the skill of the Great Shaman. Neither can be spared to help fend off an army. Chengling is a mere boy, Jing Beiyuan a pampered prince. Neither can fight well enough to make a dent in such a force. Wen Kexing cannot fight without hastening his labour. There is only one course of action, then. Wen Kexing will return to the manor, set up their defence systems and hunker down to wait them out. If they can just last until the surgery is finished, until Ye Baiyi and Da Wu have recovered enough to help…

It is not until he is back on solid ground that it occurs to him: What if Ye Baiyi can’t beat them? The immortal is strong, but strong enough to defeat an army? The surgery will deplete much of his qi; if he would have struggled to defeat an army before he expended his strength keeping Zhou Zishu alive, how can he possibly hope to stand against them afterwards? Da Wu is also strong, but he may be needed to help Wen Kexing deliver.

There is no good choice here. What they need is more time.

“How do I buy us time?” He mutters to himself.

He freezes.

Ah.

Wen Kexing takes a deep breath, exhales an ugly laugh.

A-Xu, forgive me.

He turns back around.

Duan Pengju is an unpleasant man, that much is clear. Wen Kexing has known many unpleasant qianyuan in positions of power, but it is usually not so obvious that they got to where they are based on what’s between their legs rather than what’s between their ears.

He fans himself idly as he glances dismissively at the assembled army.

“I see someone finally put you in your place, Ghost Valley Master,” Duan Pengju says with an oily smile, gesturing at his belly, as though Wen Kexing could not intuit his meaning from tone alone.

He smiles pleasantly. “I see no one has shown you yours. Allow me to oblige.”

In one throw, he cuts the throats of the first line. Thirty men go down like lopped trees. He catches his fan and returns to idly cooling himself.

Fuming, Duan Pengju holds up a fist to forestall attack. “You!—

“I’m pregnant, Duan Puengju, not lame. Rest assured, I can still slaughter you.”

“You can’t kill us all.”

“No, but I can kill you.”

He puts on a burst of speed, seizing Duan Pengju by the throat and leaping back to his position. He places Duan Pengju’s own dagger to his neck and allows it to draw blood. When he continues to spew vile threats, he paralyses his vocal cords and addressed the crowd of black uniforms.

“Who is your second in command?”

“Here, Guzhu.”

Han Ying steps out of line. Wen Kexing could faint in gratitude—or maybe he could just faint. His contractions are worsening. Not sharply painful yet, but obvious and coming closer together.

I need to wrap this up fast.

He puts on a shark-toothed smile. “I think it’s time to begin negotiations, don’t you think, Young Master?”

To his credit, if he hadn’t already known that Han Ying was deeply loyal to Zhou Zishu, he wouldn’t be able to tell. Dead-eyed, Han Ying says, “Guzhu would be wise to release our leader and stop playing games. Guzhu is vastly outnumbered.”

“This little master would be wise not to bait a mad man,” he says, before taking Duan Pengju’s knife and slicing the man’s ear off. Duan Pengju howls silently. The putrid smell of faeces and piss fills the air. It is only years of exposure to the horrors of Ghost Valley that allows Wen Kexing to pop the ear in his mouth and chew; he swallows, nearly throws up. “What part should I eat next? His tongue? A finger, perhaps?” He taps the front of Duan Pengju’s trousers with the knife. “Or should I treat myself to something a little, hm, meatier?”

The second line soldiers look as sick as he feels, looking between their fallen brothers and a howling Duan Pengju with ashen faces. They begin murmuring between themselves, some of them even back away.

“Hold the line!” Han Ying snaps at them, face tight. He turns to Wen Kexing. “Fine. I’ll play. State your terms, Guzhu.”

“Duan Pengju and I are going to return to the manor. You will follow. Your men will stay here, with Lord Zhou’s permission.” He smiles with all his bloody teeth. “If any of them should betray my lord’s hospitality by treading where they are unwelcome, they will answer to me.”

“Understood,” Han Ying says, and follows when he leaves.

His men stay behind. Obviously.

When they’re out of sight of the army, he tosses Duan Pengju to Han Ying. “Here, hold this.” He then bends over and vomits the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush.

By the time he’s standing again, Han Ying has secured Duan Pengju with rope, a blindfold and a ballgag that he has produced seemingly from nowhere.

“You’re frighteningly efficient.”

“Thank you,” Han Ying says. The corner of his mouth tilts up. “You’re frightening.”

He chuckles and ushers Han Ying the rest of the way down the road. “Thank you for playing along. I know that wasn't easy.”

Even if he was always going to be loyal to Zhou Zishu, having to make a choice like that with little to no warning, knowing you could never go back, must have been difficult.

“It is no hardship to serve my lord.” Han Ying’s brow crinkles. He ventures, “Lord Zhou is indisposed—hurt?”

Wen Kexing looks at him, surprised.

Han Ying smiles. “I know we have only met once before, but I have known Lord Zhou for many years. When we met in Yueyang, it was immediately clear to me how much he cared for you. He would not leave you to fight alone if he had any other choice, especially not in your condition.”

“The Great Shaman of Nanjiang is here. He’s removing the nails.”

Han Ying looks surprised, then happy. “I didn’t realise they were still close. After the Prince of Nanning’s death, things were difficult between them. They have not spoken for several years.”

The Prince of Nanning…

“You mean Jing Beiyuan? He’s not dead. He’s back at the manor, drinking all my wine.”

Han Ying looks shocked, then thoughtful. “I’ve only ever heard stories, rumours, but it is said Prince Jin was obsessed with him, refused to let him court the shaman, despite their compatibility and the advantage it would have given the crown in negotiations with Nanjiang.”

His eyebrows climb. He’s not surprised to hear it, exactly, but it does put Zhou Zishu’s paranoia about being recognised in a stark and strange new light.

“Come, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know the prince while you’re helping me deliver. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

His head cocks. “What are we delivering? I have several mechanical sparrows if that helps.”

Wen Kexing shakes his head. “You and my little melon head are going to get on great, I just know it.”

By the time they make it back to the manor, Chengling and Jing Beiyuan are waiting by the front gate. It’s clear from the way Chengling is pacing restlessly that Jing Beiyuan has only barely managed to stop him from tearing down the mountain in search of his shishu.

“Shishu!” He cries, running to Wen Kexing and throwing his arms around his waist. He buries his head under his armpit, mindful, as always, of the babies.

“I’m okay, silly boy. Just ran into a few stragglers on my walk.”

Jing Beiyuan approaches and raises an eyebrow when he sees their prisoner. “Duan Pengju,” he says flatly. Then he sees Han Ying and blinks, squints. “Zishu’s protégé?”

Han Ying blushes and bows. “Your Highness.”

Jing Beiyuan smiles. “You’ve gotten so big!”

Han Ying turns redder.

Usually, Wen Kexing would find Han Ying's crush terribly hilarious, but he’s got other priorities right now.

“Ah, Jing-gongzi, if you wouldn’t mind taking care of this for me,” he gestures at Duan Penju, “it would be much appreciated.”

“Of course,” he says peaceably. “It’s been some time since Pengju and I have seen each other. I would love to catch up.”

Behind his gag, Duan Pengju groans and begins to struggle. Jing Beiyuan ignores him.

“You have other business to take care of, Wen-gongzi?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I’m in labour.” He rubs his stomach absently. “I really would like to soak in the bath, at least for a little while.”

Chengling strokes his belly like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse. “Labour, Shishu? Now?"

He bops him on the nose. “Why do you think I asked you to run a bath in the middle of the day? Silly boy.”

Jing Beiyuan clears his throat and summons a strained smile. Han Ying, too, looks to be struggling to find composure. They both look a little wild around the eyes.

Useless qianyuans.

“I’ll be inside. Update me when our guest is settled, okay?”

He waddles inside, Chengling dogging his heels, asking a million questions:

“How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“No, really, Shishu.”

“Fine.”

“Should I get Da Wu?”

“No, he’s busy performing surgery on your shifu.”

“Ye-qianbei?”

“Also helping your shifu not die.”

“Should I get—"

“Everyone you could possibly run and get is here. Now be quiet and help me get into the tub before I smack you.”

Once he is settled in the tub, things begin to look rosier. Sure, there’s an army on his doorstep, but fear of Lunatic Wen (and Han Ying) have them well in hand. Sure, Duan Pengju is here, but he’s rotting in their cellars, hopefully giving up every detail of Prince Jin’s plan to Jing Beiyuan. Sure, he’s in labour while his husband is having major surgery, but Zhou Zishu will survive if Wen Kexing has to drag the man back from Hell himself. Sure, his husband may not be there when their children are born, but…but…

He bursts into tears and sobs for a good five minutes. Even through tears, he keeps an eye out for Chengling. He just got him to leave the room, for pity's sake. He can’t afford to stress the poor boy out again.

Everything will be fine, he tells himself. It has to be.

I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t.

Ye Baiyi climbs to his feet and almost immediately falls over.

“Careful,” Da Wu says, looking even more tired than he feels. “You’ll need to stay for a few days to recover.”

“Peh! I’ll stay a year if I want. This little lord owes me lodgings at the very least.” He scratches his chin, imagining the smorgasbord of delicacies Wen Kexing will cook up in honour of his husband being able to taste again. His mouth waters. Say what you will about that feral little brat, but he knows his way around a kitchen.

Da Wu nods and draws the covers to Zhou Zishu’s chest. The boy is unconscious, will likely remain unconscious for a couple of days. Ye Baiyi’s assistance mitigated a vast majority of the backlash, but what was felt is still enough to put him in a coma.

He will wake though. Of that much, Ye Baiyi is certain.

When they exit the room, he is honestly surprised to find an empty courtyard. He expected Wen Kexing, at the very least, to be camped out on the stoop.

His eyes narrow.

“Something’s wrong,” Da Wu says.

“Yes,” Ye Baiyi agrees.

By mutual, unspoken agreement, they take off in different directions. Da Wu goes east towards the cellars, he goes west towards the family courtyard. If trouble is brewing, he is certain to find Wen Kexing at the centre of it.

Sure enough, he arrives at the master’s quarters to find Wen Kexing half-conscious in the bath, muttering to himself. That would be concerning enough, but the water is tinted pale pink and his skin is flush with fever. Memories of Rong Xuan’s birth come rushing back. Changqing’s wife laboured for days to bring him into the world, and that pink water was one of the signs.

Ye Baiyi falls to his knees beside the tub and pats the brat’s cheek until his eyes begin to focus. “Hey, wake up. Hey!”

“Hm? Ol’ mnster? G’out…S’not yrr.” His eyes roll back and Ye Baiyi curses.

It’s highly improper for him to be here, now. The birthing chamber is for kunze, but since when has he ever cared about all that rot? Since when has Wen Kexing? He plunges his arms into the water and hefts Wen Kexing’s slippery body from the water.

For all that he’s kunze, and therefore more delicately built, Wen Kexing is a tall man with a fighter’s physique; he’s nearly all muscle. Ye Baiyi is forced to use what remains of his qi reserves to supplement his strength enough to lay towels on the bed while he holds the brat to his chest. Once he’s got him laid down, he covers him with a blanket and begins rooting through drawers for clothes. He finds several of Zhou Zishu’s robes and begins packing them around his body, trying to remember how Changqing’s wife liked her nest. He’s about to go find Zhou Zishu’s little disciple so he can fetch Da Wu—and some of the boy's spare clothes, now that he’s thinking about it—when Wen Kexing grabs his wrist and begins yanking at his sleeve.

“Oh good, you’re awake. What the hell were you thinking, secluding yourself at a time like this?”

He tugs again, eyes glassy.

“What?” He asks gruffly. “What do you want.”

He tugs again, whines.

Ye Baiyi blinks. “My overrobe? You want my overrobe? Me, Ye Baiyi?”

This time, Wen Kexing yanks hard enough that he stumbles and sits on the bed. Wen Kexing turns his head into his wrist and inhales, eyes fluttering closed. Some of the tension drains out of his body. Slowly, Ye Baiyi removes his overrobe and tucks it around Wen Kexing’s body, beside Zhou Zishu’s. Wen Kexing hums a contented sound and drifts off to sleep.

Huh.

Huh.

Ye Baiyi smiles.

I guess I’m staying.

Once Da Wu has been summoned, some of the urgency dies down. The Window of Heaven is on their doorstep, armed to the teeth, but Da Wu has a small company nearby who will round them up and bring them to the cellar to be imprisoned with Duan Pengju. They can remain imprisoned until Zhou Zishu is up and well enough to deal with them. Once Jing Beiyuan realised that Wen Kexing was not at all averse to having qianyuans in the birthing chamber, he volunteered to wait by Zhou Zishu’s bedside in case he woke up early enough to be involved with the birth and he quickly left. Now it’s just Da Wu, Zhou Zishu’s disciple, Ye Baiyi, and the brat—the brat who’s having brats.

Zhou Zishu’s disciple was tugged into the nest the moment he approached the bed and is now tucked protectively into the curve of Wen Kexing’s body. If he hadn’t already known about Wen Kexing’s maternal feelings for the little idiot, this would have confirmed it. Only family is allowed in the nest.

Da Wu sits in meditation near the bottom of the bed. Every hour or so, he checks how far along Wen Kexing is and pronounces things are ‘progressing nicely.’ Whatever that means.

Twice, Ye Baiyi has tried to leave the room and been growled at for his trouble, so he sits on the bed and lets Wen Kexing grip his hand, lets him deaden the appendage with each contraction and restrains his reactions to muffled curses.

The moon is high in the sky before things really begin moving. A sense of urgency fills the room as Wen Kexing gets into position. Looking at him, you’d think he was facing down an enemy horde, not giving birth. He would laugh if Wen Kexing wouldn’t break his hand for it.

Even without Da Wu moving into position to catch the babe, Ye Baiyi knows they’re coming. He can sense their qi moving down the birth canal. Several grunts, curses and pushes later, their cry pierces the air above Ye Baiyi’s hiss of pain as his hand is crushed and Wen Kexing’s shout as, presumably, something traumatising happens to his private parts.  

Wen Kexing and Zhou Zishu’s first babe comes into the world squalling and ready to fight.

Fitting, he thinks, and only realises he’s grinning ear-to-ear when Wen Kexing mutters, “Get that smug grin off your face, old man. I know what you’re thinking.”

Da Wu is smiling too. “A kunze boy.”

“Of course,” Ye Baiyi says.

Wen Kexing squeezes his hand warningly, before breaking his stranglehold on Ye Baiyi to take his baby.

Zhou Zishu’s disciple sniffles and gushes, “He’s so cute!”

“He looks like a skinned rabbit,” Wen Kexing says, sounding fascinated and maybe a little disturbed.

“Shishu,” Zhou Zishu’s disciple says, aghast. “You can’t say that.”

“I can so. I just did, didn’t I?”

Then the babe opens his mouth and yawns, nose crinkling, displaying his tiny petal of a tongue, and Wen Kexing melts. “Ah, I suppose he is cute.”

“Still red, though,” Ye Baiyi says.

Wen Kexing hums in agreement before scowling. “Hey! That’s my baby you’re insulting. Shameless old tortoise.”

Ye Baiyi scoffs. “I’ll insult your baby if I want to, brat.”

“Not if you want to keep your hand,” he threatens. “Here, hold this.”

Suddenly, Ye Baiyi finds himself with an armful of newborn and no idea what to do with his limbs. The babe is wriggly and warm. Strong, too. He didn’t know they were this strong, this early. The little terror catches his finger and squeezes. Ye Baiyi smiles. He’s got his mother’s grip, this one, that’s for sure.

“Da Wu,” Wen Kexing says urgently.

Da Wu nods and gets in position again.

“Two?” Ye Baiyi says, surprised.

Wen Kexing laughs strangely and grabs his hand again. “Just you wait, old monster.”

With that cryptic comment, Wen Kexing bears down and they begin the process all over again.

Zhou Zishu wakes to sunlight and the soft murmur of beloved voices.

I’m alive, he thinks.

The mingled smell of himself and Wen Kexing is heavy in the room. There’s something off about it, but his mind is hazy, unable to grasp the difference. It isn’t until he’s blinking the sleep from his eyes that he finds it, or he should say, them.

“Two, Lao Wen?” He croaks.

Wen Kexing smiles cheekily. “Not quite.”

Two of their children rest on Wen Kexing’s chest, swaddled in blue and purple robes that smell like the two of them. Sure enough, the third lies between them on the bed, unswaddled, little hands and feet kicking in the air; Zhou Zishu strokes their soft cheek and the little one mouths at his finger. Zhou Zishu didn’t know it was possible to feel your heart melt, and yet…

He reaches out to touch the other two, marvelling at how small and soft they are.

Then Wen Kexing’s words register. “What? There can’t be another one.”

“There’s not,” Wen Kexing says.

He sighs, partly from relief if he's honest. Three babes will already be a handful. As much as he loves the idea of a large family, having a couple at a time seems like the smart way to—

“There’s two more.”

“What.”

“Two,” Wen Kexing says, wearing that face he wears when he’s telling an especially unfunny joke that he thinks is hilarious. “It’s the number after one.”

Zhou Zishu tugs his hair playfully, still a little zoned out. “Hush, you, I’m processing.”

Five babies.

Five!

“What are their names?” He asks.

“I don’t know, what are their names?” Wen Kexing asks expectantly.

Zhou Zishu flashes back to their brief conversation outside the surgical room.

“I didn’t dream,” he says honestly.

Wen Kexing kisses him on the nose. “Then I guess you’ve got some daydreaming to do.”

It’s not until later, when they’re all clustered around the sect dining table inside Cloud Breeze Pavilion, that Zhou Zishu realises the joke.

Wen Kexing and he have a baby in each arm, ready to pass one off to Chengling at any time so they have at least one hand free to eat, and Ye Baiyi has the fifth. He’s surprisingly good with their eldest. The little boy tends to fuss when he’s anywhere but his ‘yeye’s’ arms

(Zhou Zishu almost fell out of bed the first time he heard that one, but he’s since grown accustomed to it. The kids could do much worse than Ye Baiyi, as far as grandfathers go.)

He passes their youngest to Chengling, a fussy qianyuan boy he’s thinking of naming Xiaowen (because it’s both a poignant tribute to his mother’s ancestors and a hilarious dig at said mother) when he notices that Wu Xi and Beiyuan each have a baby in their arms as well.

He does a headcount. His chopsticks clatter to the tabletop.

“Lao Wen,” he says in a small voice he has never heard himself use before, “how many babies did you say we have?”

Wen Kexing stops making funny faces at their second eldest daughter and middle daughter to stare at Zhou Zishu blankly for a moment, then he smirks at Ye Baiyi. “Pay up.”

“Doesn’t count,” Ye Baiyi says dismissively.

“Pay up you old scrooge. I said he wouldn’t notice and you said—

“You told him five! You cheated, brat. It doesn’t count.”

Wen Kexing scoffs. “Doesn’t count. How about I smack you around the training yard, then we’ll see what counts and what doesn’t.”

“Don’t tempt me, pup.”

They continue squabbling.

Mouth open, Zhou Zishu looks beseechingly at his friends, apparently the only sane people left in his life.

“Seven?” He asks weakly.

“Seven,” Wu Xi confirms, smiling just a little. “It’s the biggest litter I’ve ever delivered.”

He feels Chengling take a babe from his arms and realises, belatedly, that she’s been fussing. His disciple settles her easily and Zhou Zishu feels the strangest mix of gratitude and jealousy.

“Don’t worry, Shifu, Shishu played the same joke on me,” Chengling says, before kissing his meimei’s little wrinkled forehead. "We're just the same."

That...actually makes him feel worse.

Beiyuan smirks at him. “Good luck, my friend. You’re going to need it.”

Zishu finds his words. Eventually. “How long are you two staying?”