Chapter 6: Heartache

It happened so fast—Wen Mo suddenly went limp in his arms. Pei Zeyang froze for a second, then caught him and cupped his face in both hands.
The crutch clattered to the floor.
“Hey, Wen Mo, what’s wrong?!”
Pei Zeyang couldn’t keep up the act anymore—the cool, effortless front he put on for the little neighbor. His mind went blank. When his palm touched Wen Mo’s burning cheek, cold sweat broke out all over him.
“Wen Mo, wake up!”
Wen Mo couldn’t wake.
He felt too awful.
The medicine hadn’t helped this time. He had slept the whole day in a fog, barely aware of what he was doing. Opening the door had used up the last of his strength.
Pei Zeyang held him up by the face. His body was furnace-hot—who knew how long the fever had been running. Thin eyelids flushed red; his face burned so hard even the little mole looked like a tear of blood, unsettling to look at.
Wen Mo’s cheeks were scorching; his lips were unnaturally pale, without a trace of color.
Pei Zeyang couldn’t rouse him. One arm around him, he leaned Wen Mo against the wall and fished out his phone to dial emergency services.
Wen Mo was so thin.
Held in his arms, Pei Zeyang could feel bone under the clothes—almost sharp. That fragile wrist felt like it might snap if he squeezed too hard. The moment he gripped it, he worried he might hurt Wen Mo without meaning to and let go, glancing again and again toward the hall window.
Where was the ambulance.
Pei Zeyang didn’t have much patience.
Less than five minutes of waiting and he was restless, ready to carry Wen Mo down himself.
His thinking was simple: Wen Mo was burning up, out of his head—serious. He had to get to the hospital fast, the sooner the better. Standing here doing nothing was a waste of time.
The sooner they got there, the sooner Wen Mo would recover.
He scooped Wen Mo up in his arms.
The body he had built since childhood—four days a week in the gym—finally had a real use.
Pei Zeyang’s solid arm slid under Wen Mo’s knees.
He carried Wen Mo downstairs and still managed to grab the crutch on the way.
About ten minutes after they got down, the ambulance pulled up.
“Your leg…” Once the patient was settled, the medics noticed Pei Zeyang standing on plaster and stared.
Pei Zeyang didn’t feel the pain at all. His eyes stayed locked on Wen Mo—still unconscious, brows knit, face uneasy and in pain.
“Fine.” He brushed it off.
They drove to the nearest hospital. The nurse took Wen Mo’s temperature—nearly forty degrees.
They put him in a single room and started an IV. The fever should break tonight, they said; he would wake after that. No need to worry too much. Pei Zeyang could go to the ER for his leg.
Pei Zeyang said yes but didn’t go. He pulled a chair to the bedside and stared at Wen Mo in a coma.
Right now Wen Mo seemed unbearably fragile.
Left alone for a little while and he could get this sick.
How pitiful.
Had he always lived like this?
No family or friends to look after him?
If Pei Zeyang hadn’t knocked today, would Wen Mo have burned his brain? If help came late and there were lasting damage—he couldn’t see already; what if something else went wrong—what then.
Pei Zeyang’s head filled with worst cases he couldn’t control. Each possibility sank his heart another notch.
This afternoon he had thought his urge to protect the neighbor was strange, hard to understand. Now he didn’t think so.
Because the Wen Mo in the bed was so pitiful—a small bundle. Like a kitten curled in a cardboard box for warmth, abandoned.
So pitiful.
Blind, living alone, fever at forty and no one knew.
So many bruises on him—bandages on his forehead, on his fingers.
Pei Zeyang stared at his fingertips a long, long time. The room was so quiet there was only their breathing. He didn’t know how much time passed before Wen Mo’s lips moved and he heard no sound.
“Awake? Wen Mo?” Pei Zeyang stood at once and bent down.
The boy’s hot lips brushed his ear. Pei Zeyang caught a tiny “Mom.”
Small, light—almost a dream.
He heard it, froze, then found it funny.
“…Mom.” Wen Mo said it again.
Pei Zeyang did laugh—a huff from his nose—and nudged Wen Mo’s cheek with the back of his fingers.
The heart that had hung in the air all evening slowly settled back.
He told him: “I’m not your mom.”
—
Deep into the night Wen Mo stabilized. The murmuring lessened; his breathing lengthened; the unconscious frown eased. Pei Zeyang finally had time to go to the ER for his leg.
An hour later he came back. Wen Mo was unchanged—seemed to be breaking the fever. His forehead wasn’t as hot; breathing steady, like sleep. Now and then his cheek rubbed the pillow; long lashes fluttered.
Kind of cute.
Pitiful and cute.
Seeing him like that, Pei Zeyang relaxed completely. He washed his face in the bathroom, crossed his arms, and rested in the chair with his eyes closed.
The nurse took his temperature every hour. Each time Pei Zeyang woke at the sound and saw the numbers returning to normal.
At three in the morning he heard coughing.
Pei Zeyang snapped awake.
“Awake?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Where does it hurt?”
He got up. Wen Mo was coughing, turned to the side. Remembering the water dispenser in the room, Pei Zeyang poured a cup, helped Wen Mo sit up, and fed him water.
Warm water down his throat, the coughing stopped. Wen Mo raised a hand and caught Pei Zeyang’s palm.
Pei Zeyang looked down.
A hand smaller than his—pale against his tanned, broad palm, gripping tight.
“Pei Zeyang?”
Wen Mo knew his voice.
Pei Zeyang grunted and set the cup on the bedside with his other hand.
“You brought me to the hospital?” The moment he woke, Wen Mo felt the needle on the back of his hand, the disinfectant smell he knew well.
“Thank you so much.”
He didn’t remember much before the hospital.
Memory stopped after he fell asleep following their goodbye—then a foggy sleep, and He Yi’s call asking what was wrong, saying she only just saw his missed calls because she didn’t have her phone—did something happen, did he need her to come.
Wen Mo answered honestly: he had a cold, had wanted her to read the medicine boxes, but the new neighbor next door helped. He had taken medicine and was resting; he would be fine soon.
He hadn’t gotten better. He was in a hospital bed with an IV.
Thanks to his eager new neighbor.
So grateful.
Wen Mo smiled at Pei Zeyang—eyes curved, lips lifted, light and pretty.
“…”
Pei Zeyang belatedly asked: “Need the bathroom or something to eat?”
He had just left the hospital himself. The caregiver’s daily questions were always bathroom or food.
Pei Zeyang copied that—first time caring for someone, and he applied it to Wen Mo.
“Mm…”
That reminded Wen Mo.
Several bags of IV fluid—he did feel a bit full. He scratched his ear and said softly, “I need the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
Pei Zeyang helped him off the bed and to the restroom, holding the IV pole outside the door.
Hearing the water inside, Pei Zeyang felt oddly uncomfortable. His face heated for no reason.
“…”
What’s wrong with him.
Why was he blushing.
Wen Mo was fine—some energy back but not enough to notice much. After flushing he felt along the wall out.
He didn’t find Pei Zeyang—found the crutch left at the door instead. A brief pause, then Pei Zeyang pulled him away.
Pei Zeyang pretended nothing happened, led him back to bed, rehung the drip.
“Hungry?” Pei Zeyang asked again.
Wen Mo nodded.
He hadn’t eaten since last night. Waking up to that question, his stomach did feel empty, hollow.
“A little hungry.” Wen Mo said. “I want to eat… what time is it?”
He didn’t know if it was lunch or dinner.
“Three in the morning.” Pei Zeyang said. “Should you eat something light? Plain congee okay?”
“Ah…” Three in the morning? The time shocked him.
Already the middle of the night…
“Then let’s wait till morning for breakfast.” Wen Mo said quickly. “It’s not long. Not convenient at this hour.”
“You can get it.” Pei Zeyang didn’t listen to that. Wen Mo was hungry; he would get Wen Mo food.
He stood and left like a gust of wind.
But he was back soon.
Wen Mo heard the door. Instinct said Pei Zeyang. He tilted his head, puzzled—as if asking what happened.
“I ordered delivery.” Pei Zeyang said, not quite natural.
He didn’t trust leaving a sick Wen Mo alone—what if something happened. Delivery tonight; he would buy for him tomorrow.
“Oh, okay.” Wen Mo had no objection. He nodded and smiled at Pei Zeyang.
Pei Zeyang grunted again.
He sat back in the chair. They waited for the food.
No one spoke.
Wen Mo was used to quiet, used to spacing out—no awkwardness, no boredom.
Pei Zeyang couldn’t stand it.
He wanted to say something. After holding it in a long time, he asked Wen Mo:
“Do you know how bad your fever was today? Forty degrees.”
“…Huh?” Wen Mo didn’t know.
But forty sounded terrifying.
Pei Zeyang asked: “How did you manage before? Can’t you take care of yourself?”
“Before?” Wen Mo answered. “I lived with my family. They died in an accident early this year.”
“I didn’t think I’d get a fever. Last time I had a cold, medicine fixed it. I didn’t know this time would be so bad. Am I causing you trouble?”
Wen Mo still remembered Pei Zeyang’s leg was hurt.
He didn’t know how Pei Zeyang had gotten him here—and felt very sorry.
Pei Zeyang: “…”
I fucking deserve to die.
Wen Mo: “Sorry…”
“No.” Pei Zeyang cut him off stiffly.
Wen Mo wasn’t trouble. Pei Zeyang regretted—if he hadn’t overthought, if he had knocked sooner…
Right. He should have knocked sooner.
No need to care about face, no need for lame excuses—just go.
Pei Zeyang didn’t want this to happen again.
“I just think you seem to have it hard.” Pei Zeyang’s voice was low.
At his age he should be carefree—on the court, at school, out with friends.
But now when he was sick, no one even knew.
“Don’t you have other relatives?” Pei Zeyang asked.
“A distant one. Not here. We don’t see much of each other.” Wen Mo was honest—every question answered.
He had no guard at all around people.
Pei Zeyang: “They didn’t offer to take you in?”
“They did. I didn’t want to.”
Wen Mo wasn’t close to that relative—they had only met after his parents died. They offered to take him in; he refused. He didn’t want to live with strangers or depend on anyone—it was too awkward. He would rather live alone.
“Friends?” Pei Zeyang went on.
“A few.”
Neighbors from his old home—the boy downstairs who was in middle school… probably in high school now. Classmates from the school for the blind.
But those friends were far from his life now and couldn’t really help.
And he couldn’t always expect others to help.
“It’s okay.” Wen Mo was sensitive to emotion. He could feel Pei Zeyang’s kindness and pity.
That feeling wasn’t new. Since childhood many people pitied him—especially after he lost his parents, the looks grew sharper.
He was used to it, not offended—he thought Pei Zeyang was a very kind person.
But… besides pity, there was something else on Pei Zeyang—strange, hard to name.
Wen Mo thought a while before he placed it: heartache.
Heartache, tenderness, guilt, regret, self-blame…
Complex, a little unfamiliar yet familiar. When he was hurt as a child and his parents put medicine on him, he got the same feeling—heartache until they blamed themselves.
Wen Mo went still.