Su-gege’s hands are cold. Always cold. That’s why they hide in the folds of his sleeves; why they flutter towards burning embers. Fei Liu knows. He understands.
He helps. Su-gege won’t always remember about his body; won’t always say what it needs. But Fei Liu can look at those hands. Withdrawing. Fluttering. Time to bring the cloak, the brazier, the water for a pot of tea. The cold is an enemy. Fight the cold. Protect Su-gege. It’s simple.
When Su-gege can’t move, Fei Liu moves for him.
When Su-gege needs to be still, Fei Liu watches over him.
Fei Liu waits by his side. Watches his chest rise and fall.
Fei Liu waits, curling up by his side. Watches his pulse, fluttering.
Fei Liu sleeps. And when Fei Liu wakes, there’s a hand on his head. Not bad, not dangerous. Safe. Safe to relax into.
“Cold,” he says. It’s always cold.
The hand tenses, ready to withdraw.
“No,” he protests. Fei Liu is warm enough. It’s Su-gege that’s cold. He keeps his eyes closed, leans into the hand.
“Sleep more.” It’s still dark.
“Alright.”
The hand stays.
In the morning, Fei Liu smiles. It’s less cold now.