Chapter Three:

in sickness and in health

Grey.  Grey.  Grey.  Two pairs of footsteps, tracing their way through ash.

"It's a bit chilly, isn't it, Yifan?"

"...maybe winter is coming soon.  Or maybe - maybe winter has already passed.  To be honest... I can't remember what season it is, can you?  Hah - at least I'm not a woman, right?  They care about things like that - being on top of the latest fashions.  I can't even imagine what that's like."

"Aren't you cold, Yifan?"

"I know I know - 'don't worry, I'll be fine' - but I think a shopping trip is overdue, don't you think?  Your shirt has holes in it, and you know how much I hate when you refuse to throw out your old clothes."

"What's that, Yifan?"

"'Like I'm one to talk?'  Idiot, that's different.  This coat holds a lot of sentimental value to me, you should know that.  It might be old, but... someone... someone very special gave it to me."

The first pair of shoes slowed to a stop, prompting the second pair to come to a halt as well.

Looking up toward the sky, his breath came out in slow, shuddering breaths as lingering white clouds of condensation began to form slowly in the space before them.

"It looks like it'll rain again, soon."

Theirs was a song that had long since faded into a single chord, one that was plucked out quietly along long stretches of seconds, minutes, hours.  Like the soundtrack to a movie that nobody would ever see.

'They' - didn't just refer to them - it did, but not entirely - it referred to them as a collective, as the entire body of the human race.

Because when he watched the rain come down around them, he remembered - the vapor trails of planes in the air, the bustle of the people hurrying to work, the smoke and the noise that used to fill the void that now presented itself in the soft pitter-patter of water against the concrete, washing away the dirt and the grime.

In a world as damaged as it was, they could have never hoped to survive.  Not with the way things had always been.

But the world had never needed them anyway - because before them, there had been life, still.

And after them - there would be life, still.

The rain - it did not let up for weeks.

Zitao didn’t have to glance over his shoulder to know that he was there, always just three steps behind.

He’d disappear in and out of the fog as he pleased.  Zitao had no control over when and where he would appear, nor any idea what Yifan was doing that took him away so often - only that he came whenever Zitao called - only that he was there whenever Zitao looked.

And no one could even begin to understand what it felt like - to know that the one you loved most was still following you, even in death.

Sometimes, it was almost twisted - a feeling of elation that almost made him want to sob - to know that in some shape or form, he was no longer alone anymore - not exactly -

But at the same time, there was still that feeling of overwhelming pain, and loneliness - because for as much as it was Yifan in all the right ways - at the same time... it really wasn’t.

He was too lost in his own memories of a man whose laughter still rang in his ears, that in comparison, this Yifan seemed so quiet, so strange.  To be faced with this shadow - it made him no longer want to believe in the existence of any God.  Because no one could have been that cruel.

Look at me, touch me, he wanted so desperately to scream, to grab at the silent figure’s shoulders and shake him until some emotion formed in those blank eyes.

Love me, just like you did before.

But just like always, he remained silent instead, knowing that the words from his mouth fell on deaf ears.

Instead, he pressed kisses into a cold brow, hoping that something in that empty shell was still stirred by his touch.

For hours, Zitao sat by a window with no glass, leaning against the stone column as he stared down at the unmoving crowds that hid under the shelter of the concrete roofs, listlessly waiting for the rain to break.

A leg was dangling over the side, swinging carelessly in the breeze.

How easy it would be, to just lean over the edge, and fall.

The breeze splattered wet against his cheek.

It broke him from his dazed spell.  Blinking, suddenly tired, he came back into himself, letting his head fall back onto the stone.  

Shaking the dark thoughts, Zitao obediently brought his leg back in, setting it back down on the inside.

He remained unmoving until his sharp ears picked up something beside him a minute later.  He chose not to face the noise, recognizing the sound of scraping leather against dirt and grit.

His stomach growled.

As if on cue, items hit the ground with a metallic clank, objects rolling across the gravel, coming closer and closer toward him.

This time, he turned, keeping his gaze tracked on ground by his feet as something bumped into it, hitting the rubber of his sole and falling onto the ground.

Expired, but otherwise unopened cans of food. 

In some strange way, not-Yifan seemed as if it was obsessed with taking care of him - just as his husband had babied him in life.

And there was something strange about it - how the cans were in almost in perfect condition - flavors of salmon, tuna corn.  All things Zitao had liked to eat, before.

There was no way, Zitao thought silently to himself as he shakily pried open the pull tab to a can of tuna, scooping the meat into his mouth with his bare fingers, there was no way, that it could have been a coincidence.

Which begged the question - was there still something in there, that remembered?

Zitao wasn't quite sure, but all the same, looking into the eyes that never quite met his own - the figure that remained ever standing - he wasn't sure he wanted to know that answer, anyway.

“Have you ever seen a flower, growing in the wild?” 

Yifan set down his book.

Zitao was sitting across from him, staring out of the window.  Yifan watched the clouds reflected in his boyfriend's eyes, greyscales that slowly shifted in and out of view. 

“The soil here lacks nutrients.  That's why nothing grows anymore - not even flowers.”

Zitao hummed.

“But it wasn't always like this?”

Yifan frowned, considering the question, remembering some half-suppressed memory from his childhood.

“Actually - I think I saw a flower - once, when I was very young.”

This drew Zitao’s attention, who turned to face him eagerly.

“Really?  What did it look like?  What did it feel like?  What did - what did it smell like?”

He shrugged in place of an answer.

It had been pitiful, really.  The only splash of bright red in a field of grey-brown.  The color though, was fading, just as the tiny flower was itself.  Its petals were wilting, stem drooping into the ground beneath it.  It had been a sad sight, one that had made his soft heart clench in pain.

But then again, Zitao hadn’t been much different, had it?

“Tell you what,” He found himself telling the other man, reaching out to grasp for a warm hand, “I’ll pick one for you one day, and then you can see for yourself what it smells like.”

Zitao laughed, a sound that Yifan wished wasn’t muffled by the thick mask covering his face.

He was roused from his sleep only when he felt movement by him, the slightest stirring of wind that set his senses into a paranoid panic.

Zitao forced his eyes open - terrified for a second to see a figure standing over him, only to slowly come to the realization that it was just Yifan.

His mind was too tired to recognize the difference between the two, seeing only his husband in the figure that reached over, scattering something by his bedroll.

His breath slowed, and he watched dully as blades of wild grass floated slowly around him, drifting on the breeze to fall quietly by his head.

Zitao fluttered his eyelashes, pulling from his cheek a small green leaf that tickled him.

This was a habit of Yifan's, a gift Zitao often found, but had never been awake to witness firsthand.

It took him a while to realize the intent at first - and then it hit him one day - flowers.  It was trying to mimic all the times Yifan had bought him flowers.

Of course though, those had been fake, meant to mimic vibrant colors, and with no smell of their own. 

This though... although it wasn't a flower... although its green was more of a faded green-yellow... this was real.

Zitao pinched the blade between his fingers, rubbing his two fingers together and watching as the leaf spun between his digits.

"Where did you get this?"

There was no response, but Zitao hadn't been expecting one anyway.

He pulled the blade in closer, closing his eyes as he breathed in the scent.  Beyond the ash and smoke, he thought he could smell traces - of something he'd never known -

But the feeling was gone quickly, and Zitao let the blade go, letting it flutter away in the wind.

He sat up instead, staring up at the man who remained standing by his bedroll, looking off into the distance.

He wanted to smile - to thank Yifan for the gift - but something heavy weighed on Zitao's heart, and he couldn't quite let it go. 

He quietly shifted forward, reaching out to wrap his thin arms around the figure's legs, resting his cheek on its knees. 

He imagined fingers in his hair, carding through the strands gently.

"Yifan..."

The younger man pressed his nose deeper into the dirtied fabric, breathing in deep the smell.  He liked to think that he could smell Yifan, still. 

He liked to think - that Yifan smelled like summer - an ocean breeze on a sunny day - the fresh smell of pine and dirt.

He liked to think that Yifan smelled like home.

Home...

Zitao quivered, shivering as the temperature in his body rose. 

He had always been someone who had been by smells - and something about the thought of Yifan's natural musk lit a fire in him that had long been cold. 

The figure he held remained still in his arms, but Zitao moaned all the same, lifting himself to his knees in order to press himself fully against the other's leg.

"Hold me."  He pleaded, staring up at gaze which refused to meet his own, staring forward with that same strange intensity that it always had. 

He began to rock slowly forward, bringing himself into contact with the other's body again and again as he ground into it with quiet, stifled moans.

"H-hold me, Yifan."

Zitao breathed hot air into Yifan's groin, eyes rolling up his head as he continued to rub himself raw against the other's leg, the simple stimulation itself proving too much for someone who hadn't touched himself in months.

Taking in short shallow breaths, his pace began to quicken, beginning to rock the figure who was forced to take a step back in order to keep his balance, but otherwise remaining in the same position he had always been.

Zitao conjured up images from his memories - of Yifan in all of his glory, leaning over him with a kind smile, weaving their fingers together as he in deep.  His stomach curdled in pleasure and he whined breathlessly, jaw dropping open.

Does that feel good, Zitao?

"F-feels good -"

Zitao nodded, jerking his body faster and harder.

I love you.

"I-I love you too!"

Zitao smiled up through glazed eyes, imagining for a minute that Yifan's gaze shifted, staring back down, straight into his own.

His hips stuttered, and his vision turned to white.

"Y-yi-f-faaan!" 

Zitao shuddered helplessly, drool falling from his lips at the same time as the tears fell from his glazed eyes.

Lying in a pool of his own sweat and come, Zitao leaned against the figure in front of him, choking out his sobs behind his hand.

Provoked by the sound of tears -

Fingers hovered over his head, eyes slid down for just a second, not quite meeting their goal as the expression on an otherwise placid face struggled, as if trying to twitch into something else.

He should have realized that at some point, his body would eventually give up.

It was still raining, heavier now than ever as Zitao coughed into his wet mask, stumbling along the concrete as he used his baseball bat for a shaky crutch.

A group of the Changed had moved into the old hotel that Zitao had been camping out in for weeks, and although Yifan's presence seemed to keep most of the monsters away, the unease forced him out into the day's dark grey weather, more willing to face the elements than the knowledge that there could be something lurking in the darkness.

Maybe he should have waited until the storm had let up, though. 

Because it was bitterly cold, and the damp chill cut through his thin layer of clothes to settle deep into his bones.

For whatever reason, the rain didn't seem to bother Yifan like it did the others, nor did the cold seem to affect him any, following behind Zitao as always, his own pace slowing with the survivor's as Zitao began to lag under the frigid conditions.

Zitao shivered, gritting his teeth tight as he struggled to remain standing, pulling his arms tight around his own body.  He could barely feel his own toes, let alone the legs which were beginning to weigh heavy with numb pain as he struggled to keep moving forward, eyes trying to focus on some point in the blurry distance, much further than he had originally thought.

I have to... I have to get to...

Zitao's feet slipped beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor, vision fading seconds later.

"Come on, I know you can do this."

Gripping the rails tight between his hands, he took a slow breath, shifting his foot forward to take a step.

Almost immediately, he felt a shifting of bones and a sour, biting pain as something in his ankle gave away.  He yelped, sliding down to the ground.  Letting go of the bars, he couldn't help but to throw a small tantrum, digging the edges of his balled fists into his eye sockets as he muffled a scream of frustration through gritted teeth.

Warm hands came around his shoulder, rubbing against them comfortingly, but Zitao felt nothing but bitter disappointment, slapping the hands away with petty, foolish anger.

"Don't touch me!"

The owner of those hands didn't heed his advice, instead reaching out again to wrap arms around him, bringing his head in close to a broad chest, letting him rest against it even as he tried to push back.

"I said - don't touch me!"  Zitao hissed, pulling at his hair until strands began to come out.  The other man pulled his hands away, locking his arms against him, preventing him from reaching up again.  Unable to move out of the other's embrace, nor to pull at his hair in frustration, Zitao panted, staring helplessly down at the ankle still wrapped loosely in white fabric, looking frail and delicate.

He hated it.

Hated it - hated it - hated it so much -

"Why can't you just leave me alone!" 

The words came out of Zitao's mouth unbidden.

The strong arms fell from his shoulder, the warmth slowly leaving him - and Zitao regretted it instantly, the anger turning into sudden uncertainty and shame.

He didn't really want to be left alone, not ever again, because he knew how it felt like, to be left in the cold and the dark.

Days like that had left him frightened and unwilling to face the prospect of any more - but how long had it been, since he'd really been alone?

How often had he woken up in his hospital bed to find Yifan at his side, book still on his chest, snoring quietly with glasses that lay crooked on that otherwise perfect face?

...How often had the thought struck him?

That Yifan really deserved so much better, than someone like him, a broken body with a bleeding heart. 

Zitao said nothing, didn't apologize for the words that were the product of his own fears and the perception of his own self-worth, but Yifan's hands came back around him all the same, this time wiping at his tears with a handkerchief.

"I'm not going to leave, Zitao.  I want to be here.  I want to be with you."

He was hot.  So hot that it made him want to crawl out of his skin in order to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth, the sluggish and thick feeling in his body.

Someone was his forehead with a cool washcloth, a feeling so comforting that Zitao could only shudder, out with feverish breath.

"Yifan..."

"...Yifan?  Who the is that?"

Zitao furrowed his eyebrows, trying to open his eyes, only able to flutter them open for a few seconds to see a blurry shape in front of him, leaning toward him with a concerned expression.

"W...ho?"

The stranger was responding, saying something to him, but the words sounded muffled to him, as if spoken to him underwater as he began to fade back to black.

Zitao faded in and out of consciousness, never staying conscious for more than a few minutes on end.

The gentle brush of cloth against his skin.

Someone was breathing cold breath onto him, fingers across the bare skin of his stomach.

He could feel someone holding him close.

Or maybe it was all just a fevered dream.

Someone was lifting him, pulling the sweat-slicked sheets out from under him, only to replace them with sheets that were dry and clean.

Zitao moaned, shifting back onto his back and peeling his eyes open slowly.

Orbs of washed out colors came to him slowly, slowly focusing his vision to what lay before him.

"Ah.  You're awake."

A worried face shifted into view, and Zitao blinked, not quite recognizing its features.

The man was young and would have been very handsome, if not for the stern expression on his face that seemed to go beyond his years, the corners of his mouth pulled downward.  His hair was pulled back and yet messy at the same time, black with faded blonde tips, the last remaining color from a dye job from long before.

Zitao's eyes shifted down, toward the splayed out medical kit by the man's lap, full of bandages and compresses.

"You... you're a doctor?"

Were the first words out of his mouth in days, his voice crackled and dry from disuse. 

The man blinked, looking down to follow his gaze.

"No," The man started, frowning even deeper as he shook his head. "This is just something I picked up a while ago in some old apartments.  Was lying next to a skeleton.  Figured he wasn't going to use it, so I took it.  Thought it might come in handy one day, just didn't know it'd be so soon."

Before Zitao could even process his answer in his weakened state, he found himself staring down at an outstretched hand.

"Name's Sehun." 

Zitao lifted his own hand from the bedroll, taking the offered hand limply.

"...Zitao."

You should have stayed out of the rain.  You know there's acid in that stuff.  It was bound to make you sick, one way or another.

It was a good thing though - that you collapsed right on the steps of the police station.

Any further and I might not have found you.

Sehun was someone Zitao could have imagined he would have liked to have been friends with, before.

The man had sharp, dry humor and a cutting tone of voice - but at the same time, it was clear the man cared, having taken care of a Zitao for what had apparently been a few days as he struggled to break through his fever. 

He had offered Zitao a place to stay, sharing his food and supplies with him, for as long as it took for Zitao to fully recover.

And for someone to take this attitude to another stranger - it was something Zitao hadn't anticipated at all, something which would have endeared the other man to him if not for the fact -

That it just wasn't a time to be making friends.  As much as Zitao was grateful for all Sehun had done for him - he still couldn't trust the man, didn't trust him.  He let the man chatter mindlessly over him, mind already wandering to other, more important things.

"...Who is 'Yifan'?"

Zitao jerked away from the barred window to stare back at Sehun, stoking the fire idly with his back turned.

"You kept calling his name out.  You don't remember?"

Sehun turned, watching as Zitao shook his head once. 

"...don't tell me he's the silent creep that comes walking in every now and then, never says a word, just tosses supplies and flees?"

Zitao lurched onto his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead.

" - You've seen him?  Where, where has he been?  Where is he now?  Is he - is he okay?"

The expression on the other man's face turned neutral, thoughtful.

Sehun turned to crumple up more paper to throw into the fire, pausing to slide his eyes over Zitao's seated form, resting his gaze on the hands that were clutching the thin jacket on his lap.

"You're married to him, aren't you?  I saw the same ring on his hand."

Zitao suddenly felt self-conscious, hiding his hand underneath the fabric.

"Don't be ashamed.  I'm just... jealous, I guess.  I just moved into the city, so I didn't have the time to make any friends yet, let alone anyone to call my own."

Sehun gestured toward a black bag at his side, the tell-tale shape and strap hinting at what lay inside.

"I'm an aspiring fashion photographer.  Or I was.  Shame, really.  My career was just taking off - had some photosets back-ordered and some major gigs lined up.  Don't know why I still bring it with me - call it nostalgia, maybe - but it figures that the first thing that broke was my camera lens.  Thing cost me a couple hundred bucks.  Hah!"

He turned to Zitao with a wry smile, as if expecting one back from the other man, but upon seeing Zitao's vacant expression, the smile gradually fell from his own face, replaced instead with a look of weary acceptance.

"Where's Yifan?"  Zitao repeated the question, this time in a louder voice.

Sehun threw some more paper into the fire, watching the flame eat up the sheet, turning the off-white into a more intense shade of burnt browns and blacks.

"...have you heard of the old borderlands?  I hear it's a zombie-free zone there.  They've got a shelter set up and everything.  Heard there's still a lot of survivors camped out there - that's where I'm headed.  You're welcome to come with me, if you'd like."

Zitao stood up shakily, pulling his jacket over his body as he began to bundle up to leave.

Sehun stood with him, coming over to help him, only to have his hands pushed away.

"Wait - wait - I'll take you - to Yifan."

Zitao paused, letting his hands fall from the buttons on his jacket.

"You know where he is?"  He asked quietly, only to receive a small frown in return, intense eyes looking away from him to stare down at the floor.

"I do."

Inside of a locked jail cell, standing just barely visible in the shadows, eyes gleamed in the dark in a way that wasn't quite human.

Zitao recognized it immediately, limping as fast as he could to the bars, wrapping his hands around them as he pressed forward, calling out Yifan's name.

Hearing the distress in his voice, Yifan stepped up, pressing in close, allowing Zitao to run his hands over his cheeks.

Zitao's eyes flicking over the rest of his body as he examined him for any injuries, spinning around seconds later with an angered expression.

"You locked him up?!  What are you - "

Click.

Zitao stared down the barrel of a small handgun, the words dying in his mouth as he leaned away into the bars.

But Sehun wasn't aiming at Zitao, instead at the figure standing behind him.

"Get away from the bars."

Slowly coming to his own realization, Zitao shook his head, coming to stand between the gun Sehun was pointing and its target.

Sehun growled, reaching forward to yank Zitao away forcibly, keeping a hand locked on the other man's wrist as he pushed him back behind him.

Lowering his pistol now that the other was away from the metal bars, he leaned into Zitao, hissing at him.

"You've known he was a Changed, all along, haven't you?"

Zitao held his ground against the other's aggressive advances, glaring back at him.

"He's not one of them - he's different - he's never hurt anyone -"

"- never hurt anyone?!  You've got to be - listen - I figured out what he was when I stumbled onto him chewing some poor kid's face off the other day!"

Zitao drew back, eyes wide, the thoughts in his mind falling silent.

"You're... you're joking.  He would... he would never..."

The jail cell door began to rattle, louder and louder.

"I'll admit," Sehun began, shaking his head, "He looks different from the rest.  When I noticed him prowling around the perimeter, I thought maybe he was another survivor.  But there's something wrong with him, can't you see?!  He's not your husband - never will be again!"

Zitao gripped his head, folding his hands over his ears and his clenched his eyes shut.

"No - you're lying!"

"Listen - Zitao - it's not too late.  I checked you over while you were feverish and I can tell you're not one of them.  You still have a chance, don't you get it?  There's no reason to remain here - let's head over to the old borderlands, together, regroup with the rest of the survivors, and leave this place behind.  What do you say?"

Zitao didn't have any response, eyes sliding over to the man who was gripping the bars of the jail cell, rattling them so hard that it shook the entire wall in its foundations.

"All you need to do is to take care of him."

Sehun waved his gun, pointing it back at the source of the noise.  Zitao made a strangled noise of protest, reaching out a hand to stop him.

"Please - leave him alone - he's never done anything to you!"

Sehun grit his teeth.

"If you don't want to come with me, that's fine.  I tried asking, and that's all I was obligated to do.  But sooner or later, regardless of who he was to you before - he'll bite you!  I'm just doing you a favor - you need to put him down while you still can."

Sehun cocked the pistol, bringing both hands up to steady his grip as he aimed down the barrel.

"This is for your own good."

He began to squeeze the trigger.

"- WAIT!"

Sehun paused.

"W-wait..."

Zitao was sobbing, holding shaky hands out toward him.

"H-he's my husband.  I-I'll do it."

"...Are you sure?"

A nod that was as much a nod as it was a shake and a shudder.

After a moment of consideration, Sehun's eyes softened and he pulled back, reaching over to carefully place the pistol in Zitao's hands. 

Zitao stared down at the pistol, feeling its weight in his hands as he moved to the front of the jail cell, his breath hitching in its throat. 

He stared at his husband for a full minute, closing his eyes briefly to implant the image into his mind.

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath, slowly raising the pistol until it was level with Yifan's forehead.

His hands shook on the grip.

Somewhere behind him, Sehun was speaking.

"You know you have to do it sooner or later.  There's nothing left in there but a husk, anyway.  Just pull the trigger."

Zitao felt his lip trembling, biting it tight until he could no longer feel the pain.

He put his finger over the trigger, eyes already blurring with tears.

A smile that lit up even the darkest of moods.  Hands that had never left him.  A man who smelled like home.

He pulled the trigger.

Sehun never knew what hit him, falling to the floor with a wet and wounded gasp, already bleeding out.

With a choked cry of dismay, fingers stretched over the gaping hole in his chest, the ragged edges of his body which were now exploded over the cement, splattering crimson red against the dusty grey floor of concrete.

He struggled to speak, staring up with quickly fading eyes at the man who walked up to him with the gun still pointed, reaching down to pull the jail cell keys from his pocket.

"You don't understand - would never understand."

Zitao was sobbing, wiping the snot and tears from his face with a sleeve.  Lifting the keys, he put the muzzle of the gun flush against the other man's heart, reaching out to hold the other's outstretched hand as he prepared the final mercy shot.

"I'm so sorry, Sehun.  But he's - my - husband!"

I've killed someone.

Zitao tried not to listen to the sounds of flesh being devoured as he sat with his back turned to the scene, sobbing quietly with unseeing eyes, the pistol laying discarded at his feet.

Flinching when he heard the teeth scrabbling against bone, the sound of a skull being cracked open, Zitao sank down onto the ground, clapping his hands over his ears.

Because for as much as the guilt was overwhelming, for as much as he found himself crying out for a man he had just come to know - a man with big dreams and a camera full of memories - Zitao would have done it all again, if it had been his choice.

A hand settled onto his thin, bare collarbone.

It took a second for him to realize - it was warm.

He stared down at it, noticing for once a skin pallor that was no longer a deathly pale - veins that looked as if it actually held blood.

When his gaze traveled up, his gaze met one that locked directly with his own, eyes that blinked back at him.

And maybe he heard it - a soft puff of breath against his skin.

"...Tao."