Chapter 7: The Hospital

Wen Mo thought his idea was strange.
How long had he known Pei Zeyang? How could Pei Zeyang have such complicated feelings for him—as if Wen Mo were his responsibility, as if he regretted not taking better care of him?
It made no sense. Wen Mo shook his head, trying to drop the messy thoughts. Maybe Pei Zeyang was just a very good, very eager person.
In eighteen years Wen Mo had met plenty of kind people like that. Thinking that way, Pei Zeyang wasn’t so odd… probably.
Though the feeling from him was a bit more layered, Wen Mo didn’t dig further. He said: “Don’t take it to heart. This kind of thing is rare.”
“Maybe it’s the sudden cold snap. Next time I have a cold, after medicine I’ll remember to check my temperature.”
“It’s fine—just an accident.”
And accidents didn’t happen often.
Wen Mo was still sick yet comforting Pei Zeyang. He hoped his words would ease the guilt—even though he didn’t know where it came from.
“You drank expired milk before.” Pei Zeyang didn’t feel better because of that.
He remembered what Wen Mo said—the medicine boxes with diarrhea and stomach pills, left over from the spoiled milk.
No matter how lightly Wen Mo spoke, Pei Zeyang still saw him as fragile, unable to care for himself—a small creature without his parents’ shelter.
Pitiful. Something that stirred pity and heartache.
It roused that inexplicable protectiveness he couldn’t trace.
“This won’t happen again.” After a long silence Pei Zeyang suddenly said.
“Hm?” Wen Mo tilted his head.
“Mm-hmm!”
It won’t happen again—he would be careful, stay out of the hospital, cut down on accidents.
They were talking past each other, each with his own meaning—yet somehow they landed on the same page.
…
Half an hour later the delivery arrived. Pei Zeyang had found a place that stayed open late—plain congee and steamed egg.
The congee was fragrant and thick, golden and warm. Wen Mo ate most of a bowl; several spoonfuls of egg too.
It tasted good. Pei Zeyang insisted on feeding him, which was a little embarrassing.
“I’m full.”
The spoon came to his lips. Wen Mo turned his head. “No more.”
“One last bite.” Pei Zeyang wanted him to eat more.
He had just learned Wen Mo hadn’t eaten since last night—starved that long—and still hadn’t finished one bowl.
Wen Mo was too thin, bones sharp under the skin. He needed to eat more, get stronger, visit the hospital less.
“Fine, fine—last bite.” Unable to refuse, Wen Mo opened his mouth and took two big spoonfuls.
But he really didn’t want more egg. Couldn’t eat it.
Even if Pei Zeyang still thought he wasn’t full, he could only ask again and again: “Really done?”
“Mm-hmm! Really!” Afraid Pei Zeyang wouldn’t believe him, Wen Mo nodded hard. “I’m really full.”
“Is that so.” Pei Zeyang’s gaze dropped to Wen Mo’s belly—almost wanting to pat it and check.
…Would that be rude.
Since meeting Wen Mo, Pei Zeyang’s thinking had shot straight up.
But Wen Mo couldn’t see.
When Pei Zeyang went still thinking, the room went quiet. Wen Mo found it odd.
“Pei Zeyang?”
He called his name. Pei Zeyang came back.
“Oh—okay.” Realizing the urge to touch Wen Mo’s stomach was off, Pei Zeyang’s expression shifted. Awkward. He answered in a hurry, busy air about him. “I’ll take out the trash.”
Wen Mo: “Okay.”
Pei Zeyang walked a long way to dump the trash and cooled down outside a good while before coming back in.
Wen Mo sat obediently on the bed in loose hospital scrubs, head turned toward the window. A slice of pale, slender neck showed in Pei Zeyang’s vision, soft under the light.
Rain tapped outside. Wen Mo seemed to be listening. When the door opened he turned to “look” out.
“Pei Zeyang.”
Wen Mo asked: “Has the rain let up a lot outside?”
“Huh? Mm… yeah.” Pei Zeyang had just been in the hall calming down. He hadn’t noticed the rain at all.
He had gone out to hide the weird thoughts.
Now he was staring at Wen Mo’s neck again, answering in a muddled, not-very-cool way.
Wrong.
Bad for his image.
Not his usual self.
Pei Zeyang felt he didn’t have to perform in front of Wen Mo—but he should at least look like himself. He was usually cool and handsome.
He chose to answer again.
“Yeah. Rain’s lighter.” He cleared his throat silently, then put on steady, effortless calm—the cool, unruffled voice.
“When can I leave the hospital?” Wen Mo asked.
Pei Zeyang: “Once the fever’s gone.”
“Then am I better?” Hearing that, Wen Mo lifted a hand to his forehead.
“I can’t tell.”
His head and his hand felt the same temperature.
He tried palm and back of hand twice—still couldn’t tell.
Pei Zeyang: “…”
Pei Zeyang: “I’ll check.”
The eager, helpful neighbor walked over. His broad, dry palm covered Wen Mo’s forehead.
Pei Zeyang’s hand was large, warm, calluses of different thickness on the palm. Wen Mo’s skin was smooth and tender, thin and translucent, like jelly.
Pei Zeyang didn’t dare press hard—as if a little more force would leave a mark on that pale skin.
“Almost down.” He pushed down the strange feeling in his chest, tone stiff. “You can probably leave tomorrow.”
“Really? That’s great.” Wen Mo didn’t like hospitals. He wanted home.
Pei Zeyang grunted, about to pull away—when Wen Mo suddenly caught his hand.
“Why do you have so many calluses?” Wen Mo was curious. He had never touched a hand like this—even his father’s weren’t this thick.
Was Pei Zeyang in manual labor?
“Hand?” Pei Zeyang looked down. Wen Mo held his palm, feeling his knuckles and the rough spots.
Wen Mo’s hand was much smaller but held him so tight he couldn’t pull free.
Because of that touch Pei Zeyang’s heartbeat sped up—especially when Wen Mo’s slender fingers moved across his palm… faster still.
He wanted to pull away.
He didn’t like being touched.
That’s what he thought—but he couldn’t break free, only watched the pale fingers on his palm. After a while, at Wen Mo’s prompting “Hm?” he spoke stiffly: “Rock climbing, I guess.”
“Wow! Rock climbing! You’re amazing!”
A sport he had never tried made Wen Mo even more curious.
He had only heard of it on TV.
“Is it those really tall mountains?” he asked.
Pei Zeyang: “…”
“No. A climbing gym.” Pei Zeyang had never climbed real mountains or cliffs—only the club. It didn’t match Wen Mo’s expectation. Something subtle twisted in his chest.
“So impressive.” Wen Mo praised. “I only know how to run. I did a marathon before.”
“Half marathon. I thought it was really fun.”
At his age, any outing was fun.
Pei Zeyang looked at him. “Want to do it again?”
“I do.” Wen Mo nodded.
“Next time there’s a marathon, I’ll go with you.” Pei Zeyang said.
“Yes, yes.” Wen Mo nodded hard and let go of Pei Zeyang’s hand.
The warm contact vanished. Pei Zeyang felt wrong again.
Not only his hand empty—something in his chest too.
“Are you a college student?” Wen Mo asked after a while.
“Yeah.” Pei Zeyang answered.
“Wow~” Wen Mo had guessed right—pleased with himself.
Their complex was close to a university. Pei Zeyang’s voice didn’t sound old—maybe around twenty. College student seemed right.
“You?” Pei Zeyang asked.
“You’re probably still in school too.”
“Not anymore.” Wen Mo denied softly.
His parents had wanted him to test into a specific university, study special education, work at a school for the blind—among people like him, less malice and pity, a simple circle. Maybe find someone, build a family, support each other.
Live plain, peaceful, happy lives. That was the plan.
Parents always wanted their child safe and steady and happy.
Then the accident came out of nowhere.
With his parents gone, that future could only wait.
He didn’t take the exams—he was in the hospital then. Then moving, a completely strange place, learning to care for himself. Eating and daily life took most of his time. No room to return to school.
Get life smoother first—that came first.
Wen Mo folded his hands on the blanket and smiled at Pei Zeyang.
He didn’t dump his troubles on Pei Zeyang. Instead he was curious about college life and asked about his—learned Pei Zeyang was three years older, senior year, at the university near their complex.
Listening to campus stories, Wen Mo laughed at the funny parts. Slowly the talk grew quieter. Wen Mo’s eyelids lowered. His voice faded to nothing.
Even breathing.
Asleep.
Pei Zeyang stared at his sleeping face—thick lashes resting on his lids, faint shadow, breath light and long. Quiet, obedient, pretty as a porcelain doll.
This sleep looked peaceful.
Not like hours ago—brows tight, face pale, calling for Mom.
Pei Zeyang thought of that again and huffed a laugh through his nose, bent down, and tucked the blanket.
His touch was light. Wen Mo still woke briefly, caught his hand, mumbled: “Pei Zeyang, you should sleep too.”
“Okay.” Pei Zeyang answered.
“Is there a cot in the room?” Wen Mo woke a little more.
Pei Zeyang: “There is. You sleep.”
“Good… you sleep on the cot. Rest early too… Zzzzzz—”
So tired, yet still worrying whether Pei Zeyang had somewhere to sleep.
He had forced himself awake a few seconds to care for him—then couldn’t stay awake.
Pei Zeyang thought he was adorable. Not sleepy at all—only wanted to watch him sleep.
Wen Mo had grabbed his hand three times today.
Why did Wen Mo like grabbing his hand.
He thought Wen Mo was like a porcelain doll.
…
Wrong.
Before he had thought Wen Mo was a little pity case, like a stray cat—that he understood. Wen Mo looked so small and pitiful. But now—why did he think a guy was like a doll?
Weird.
Pei Zeyang stood there, lost. He rubbed his head, swept his blond hair back. Without bangs in the way he seemed to see Wen Mo more clearly.
Though his own fringe wasn’t long anyway.
The clearer he saw, the more Wen Mo looked like a pretty, fragile porcelain doll that could shatter any moment.
So he had to watch over him, protect him, take care of him.
Pei Zeyang’s conclusion: sleep tomorrow.