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The first time happens thoughtlessly, almost unintentionally.
Han Ying is 14 and not yet used to all the new ways his limbs move; he didn't know he could have growth spurts before he had access to regular meals. But he can, and it was enough to screw up his assignment.
Regardless of the reason, he is responsible for ruining Tian Chuang's entire mission today. What's the point of keeping a runner who can't even run properly, he wonders.
And yet somehow, he has been forgiven, by a man with more mercy than Han Ying knows how to handle.
Anyone else would have thrown him back to the street and called that mercy. Anyone else would have killed him and called it fair.
On his knees before Zhou-shouling, Han Ying finds himself too overcome for words, reaching instead for the hand hanging idle at Zhou-shouling's side. He grips it in both of his own; it's instinct; hasn't he seen so many servants do something like this when their masters bid them?
Han Ying's lips press into the soft skin for just a second before he feels Zhou-shouling's flinch. He looks up in time to catch confusion, smoothing into understanding and...things he doesn't quite recognise.
Qin-xiongdi tells him later, eyes dancing with mirth, that he should have pressed the hand to his forehead, not his mouth--except he shouldn't have done anything of the sort actually and he really has so much to learn about living in society, doesn't he?
Han Ying nods absently, because it's true, but he goes to bed with cheeks warm from the lingering memory of pressure on his lips and the untameable thoughts of a 14 year old mind.
The second time cannot be called an accident, mere months after the first. But neither is it calculated.
They are celebrating Zhou-shouling's twentieth birthday. Or rather, Zhou-shouling and Qin-xiongdi disappeared up to the palace early in the evening to celebrate and Han Ying has waited up alone for sounds of their return, vigilant, something he pretends is not yearning sitting heavy in the aching pit of his stomach.
When they do return it is loud.
Han Ying is very good at what he does, and still there are days when he cannot hear the Tian Chuang shouling approach. After all, the man is not just merciful, not just understanding and patient and full of barely-subdued humour, but also skilled beyond measure! So why is it that tonight Han Ying can hear not only Qin-xiongdi's familiar clomping but Zhou-shouling next to him, stumbling?
He's out the door and down the hall in an instant, adrenaline pumping, imagining the worst, imagining Zhou-shouling limping, covered in blood--
"'S Ying'er! What're yeu--you--out of bed! Doing! Hah!"
Han Ying stops in his tracks as a thoroughly wasted Zhou Zishu collapses against his hiccoughing, giggling shidi.
"Shixiong got--hc!--he got so drunk," Qin-xiongdi exclaims in the worst loud whisper Han Ying has ever heard. "Can you--hc!--believe it, Han-xiong?--hc!"
Well, certainly he can, because it's right in front of his eyes. It's not unheard-of for even very wise men to drink too much on certain occasions. What he can't really quite come to terms with is the fond, playful tone wrapped warmly around that name--Ying'er.
But when his two superiors almost fall over on their next step, Han Ying collects himself and steps in to relieve Qin-xiongdi of his task.
"Shoul' get that boy some...that boy some more..." Zhou-shouling doesn't finish his thought, trailing off into a sigh as Qin-xiongdi gratefully leaves.
One hand grasping a limp arm, one hand firm on broad leather, and it's quick work to get Zhou-shouling to his own rooms. But it's also too much closeness for Han Ying to process: a head lolling onto his shoulder; hot breath at his neck and the smell of alcohol; warm weight against his side, so effortlessly trusting.
Ying'er.
Easier to slide under the mantle of duty and attentiveness than even acknowledge it as real, so in silence he readies Zhou-shouling for bed.
Hydration--water droplets running down the corner of red lips, a strong chin--
Belt--hard leather hitting the floor, a quiet exhale of relief, a soft hum of contentment vibrating under his fingertips--
Boots--what if he slipped and touched that leg--what if he looked up from where he's kneeling and realised the position was just like the one he saw in--
Han Ying bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. He tips Zhou-shouling over onto the bed and lifts his feet up to settle him properly.
He's practically asleep already, his breathing deep and slow, stray hairs wisping around his cheeks. Hands, resting easily across his middle.
Han Ying lifts them up to tuck the blanket in under them. But perhaps he has tried too hard to not think at all tonight because as he goes to put them back down, determined to not notice Zhou-shouling's exposed neck, he finds himself ghosting his lips across cool fingertips.
What--what is he doing?! He freezes, drops Zhou-shouling's hands as though burnt, and looks up, breath caught.
But his shouling is still fast asleep. Fast asleep and drunk besides, his brain finally catches up and reminds him. Han Ying releases his held breath into the still air.
He has no right to the intimacy he just stole, but it's a crime with no witness so he has been given a stay of execution this time. He had better not waste it.
Carefully, he flees to his own room and doesn't think about anything else at all until morning.
The third time...Han Ying cannot even guess how the third time comes to be.
He strives to be good, to be the best, if not in skill then in obedience. It's no longer about debt; it's about loyalty.
But he is 15, going on 16, and even he cannot beat out of himself the independent streak that kept him alive on the streets.
So he finds himself again on his knees, explaining his actions.
"You are right to tell me the truth the first time."
Han Ying blinks down at the fine black boots of his shouling. Who would dare try to lie to Zhou Zishu?
Something of his thoughts must show on his downturned face because the man in question huffs and adds, "Not all your fellows are as clever as you."
Han Ying keeps his head bowed, but tension drains from him; he would not be receiving such praise if he were seriously in trouble.
"Your actions are understandable, but not permitted," he is told, the voice growing an edge again. "I expect that the next time someone pushes you to the point of retaliation, I will not hear about it."
It takes a second for Han Ying to register the precise words he's hearing. Did he really imply…? He cannot be mistaken; there is nobody more exact with his words than the exacting Zhou-shouling.
"Yes, Zhuangzhu," he ventures.
There's an unmistakable note of wry amusement when Zhou-shouling confirms, "Consider it your new assignment."
Permission, then. Permission to do whatever he wants, so long as he doesn't get caught. Han Ying didn't think he could adore him any more, but he does every day.
"Yes, Zhuangzhu."
"Come on, then."
And he looks up at last, but he does not see a gesture beckoning him to rise. Instead Zhou Zishu stands directly in front of Han Ying, one hand slightly stretched toward him, palm still facing down. Han Ying furrows his brow.
"Zhuangzhu?"
"Don't tell me you suddenly don't know what to do. Ying'er."
There's a challenge behind his eyes, sparkling a bit, so similar to the way Qin-xiongdi looks when he issues Han Ying a dare. Han Ying swallows but reaches out his hands in an instant; he is not a coward.
He kisses Zhou-shouling's hand, and as if they have done this a hundred--a thousand times before this, Zhou-shouling detaches himself with grace and waves Han Ying to stand.
"Very good. Go report for your chores."
Reeling, Han Ying does.
And after that...after that, Han Ying has the great luxury to lose track. He belongs to Zhou Zishu in a way no other Tian Chuang operative does and he may not be one of the Siji Shanzhuang disciples, or even their disciples, but he is something, and always he is allowed the privilege of that kiss.
He is 16 and sent to his knees with a sharp word after raising his voice to his shouling; his kiss is barely-there, ashamed and still prickling with discomfort, but no less sincere.
He is 17 and accepting his promotion; gratitude wells up in him and he allows it only to show in this gesture, determined to keep composure and make Zhou-shouling proud.
He is 18 and kneeling in spite of his broken leg, true failure heavy on his heart in a way he could not have imagined four years ago; he presses his bloody lips to a hand that he pretends is not ever-so-slightly trembling.
He is 19 and his heart stops in his chest every time he sees Zhou Zishu do, well, anything; he makes every excuse to kneel in his presence, for any reason, just so he can look up expectantly for the hand that is never denied.
He is 20 and letting his lips linger every time a bit longer, leaving these unspoken feelings in the sacred space between them--the only indulgence, he has realised, that either of them will ever allow.
He is 21 and Zhou-zhuangzhu has begun turning up drunk at his doorstep, not from any party he knows about; he delivers the kiss that is his by rights even on the nights Zhuangzhu is too far gone to notice.
He is 22 and no matter how severe Zhou Zishu gets, no matter how cold, he does not forget to give Han Ying his hand. He is 22 and gives Zhou-zhuangzhu the fullness of his fealty (as if there was ever any doubt he had it), seals it in secret between them with the briefest of contact. He hopes it is not just another burden.
He is 23 and Zhou Zishu is gone.
It is only then that Han Ying realises he lost count.
Each week that passes after, he feels more and more bereft. It should seem silly, or stupid, that he misses something so ephemeral and ill-defined, but it's the most serious thing in the world. It never needed definition or explanation. And it was all he ever asked. All he wanted: to be allowed to cherish, even if not to be cherished in return.
He doesn't shirk his duty, but he loses all trace of satisfaction in it. There is a tension between his shoulders that takes up residence and will not go.
But the worst is yet to happen, because the worst is the day he finds Zhou Zishu in the Yueyang forest. Han Ying kneels on the rough ground, strung taut like a bow, his heart full of relief and far too much else, and Zhou-zhuangzhu...pulls him to his feet.
And again, even when his companion has left them to their own devices.
And a third time, in Han Ying's own room.
For the first time in almost a decade, he didn't dare touch his drunk zhuangzhu more than necessary to lay him down in bed.
Afterward, Zhou Zishu walks away from the declarations Han Ying frantically tries to make verbal, leaves him there drowning in the growing void between them.
That could have been the end of it all. If it weren't for a collective display of quick thinking and good timing, it would have been; Han Ying is not easily deterred once he has set his mind on something, not even when faced with the price tag of his own life.
Zhou Zishu should have known that, he thinks, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at his...his Han Ying, whatever else he is to him now. It's not fair that the man looks so peaceful in his healing slumber when Zhou Zishu is sure his own pulse still hasn't slowed. A clawing panic has lived underneath his skin these past few terrible days, and it takes more effort than he expects to purge it.
Wu Xi has assured him, though, that the little fool will be fine, and should wake any time now. Zishu is reluctant to leave his side before then.
Which is convenient, because Wen Kexing of all people has snubbed him, refusing to have a civil conversation with his own zhiji until he's "done right by Ying'er" and--and! Refusing to even let him at their own disciple!
What the hell did Lao Wen get out of Han Ying when he was dying, anyway?
Bah, it doesn't matter. What matters is that he didn't die.
And Zishu perhaps deserves whatever passing ire Lao Wen wants to throw at him on behalf of a Han Ying who is too...Han Ying to do it himself.
Curling his hand around the smaller one at rest, reassuring himself of its continued warmth, Zishu watches the blanket rise and fall steadily in the afternoon sunlight.
Perhaps Han Ying was foolish, but if the servant is a fool then the master is bound to be a bigger one. And he was an absolute fool to think that if he just tried hard enough he could truly push Han Ying out of his life and into one all his own, somewhere off the road to hell that Zishu had brought him onto. He was a fool to think Han Ying wouldn't just throw himself down that path all the harder; he would burn himself out like a star for Zishu at a moment's notice, even if he believed Zishu didn't care about him at all.
It's not something he was ready to accept a year ago, or two, or three years ago. He's ready now.
After all, what would Zishu do, if their roles were reversed?
What hasn't he threatened to do for Lao Wen, for Chengling? What hasn't he already done in this life?
For the one who has never so much as faltered a single step, no matter where Zishu led? For the one who tempted him longer than he ever should have allowed? For the one he can rely on at the worst of himself? He knows the answer.
Han Ying shifts as he wakes, just slightly. Zishu can feel the movement ripple on the bed and he is prepared for the groggy, "...Zhuangzhu?"
He has had long enough to contemplate his response.
He lifts Han Ying's hand in his own and without preamble presses a kiss directly to the back of it, holding it through Han Ying's flinch and sharp indrawn breath. Han Ying's other hand hovers in the air as if to do something and Zishu takes advantage of it, drawing that one in too for its own display of affection.
Through it all he keeps eye contact, watching the journey of Han Ying's face: mouth open just slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and then narrow, calculating too much with a mind too fresh from deep sleep.
"I owe you two of them, Ying'er," Zishu offers simply.
Han Ying's face is red but he's always been a bit quicker than Zishu expects. "I don't get anything for almost dying?" he manages with a hoarse voice.
Zishu snorts. "No. You know well that I don't reward such folly." Then before Han Ying can get comfortable, he leans in closer, lets his gaze flicker down and back up with intention. Waits for the exact moment he sees disbelief register and says, "But this is for waking up."
It's probably a reckless, ridiculous thing to do, ducking in to set his mouth against Han Ying's and forever changing something that nobody asked to be changed. But Zishu's life is full of reckless, ridiculous things now, and he can hardly claim it's the worst he's ever done. It doesn't even rank in the top fifty. He kisses him firmly, unapologetic, freeing his hands to cup Han Ying's face between them.
He doesn't stop until Han Ying no longer tastes of salt. Then he pulls back, hands dropping to cover the ones tangled desperately in the front of his robes.
Nonsensically, Han Ying mutters, eyes closed, "One."