Work Text:
A week after the fever finally broke, the clinic was back to its normal, peaceful rhythm. Jiang Xiaoshuai was fully recovered, his energy restored, his smile professional yet genuine. He was running a few minutes late closing up, but this time, it wasn't due to exhaustion. It was due to planning.
As he finally locked the clinic door and walked toward the apartment he shared with Guo Chengyu, he felt a flutter of nervous anticipation. Chengyu’s care had been so lavish, so comprehensive, that Xiaoshuai felt a pressure to deliver a repayment that measured up, yet didn't cross the line into Chengyu’s usual chaotic exuberance. Xiaoshuai dealt in precision; he would repay with precision and tailored comfort.
He knew Chengyu was currently neck-deep in a complicated work project—a high-stakes bid that required late nights and endless coffee. Chengyu, the selfless caregiver, now needed a caregiver himself.
When Xiaoshuai opened the apartment door, the first thing he saw was Chengyu slumped over the dining table, surrounded by blueprints, laptops, and empty tea mugs. Chengyu looked tired, his hair ruffled, his usual bright energy dimmed by hours of focus.
“Welcome home, love,” Chengyu mumbled, not lifting his head. “Did you remember to eat dinner?”
“I ate a balanced, sensible meal, thank you,” Xiaoshuai replied, his voice firm. He walked over, gently took Chengyu’s chin, and turned his face towards him. “Now, you are clocking out.”
Before Chengyu could protest, Xiaoshuai set his plan into motion.
“First order of business: The Transformation,” Xiaoshuai announced.
He gently but firmly steered Chengyu toward the bedroom. Xiaoshuai had carefully laid out an outfit: the softest, thickest flannel pajama pants Chengyu owned, and a faded, ridiculously comfortable university hoodie that Xiaoshuai normally complained about but knew Chengyu loved.
“Change into these. Immediately. You’re not wearing work clothes one second longer,” Xiaoshuai commanded. “Your mind needs to associate this fabric with peace, not profit margins.”
While Chengyu grumbled good-naturedly in the bedroom, Xiaoshuai cleared every piece of work material from the dining table. He tidied the space with ruthless efficiency, eliminating the visual clutter that contributed to Chengyu’s stress.
Next, Xiaoshuai prepared the bathroom. He ran a deep, hot bath, adding essential oils—not the sinus-clearing eucalyptus Chengyu had used, but a calming blend of sandalwood and bergamot designed for relaxation. He lit a couple of subtle, unscented candles and, most importantly, brought in a portable Bluetooth speaker.
“Your prescription is a minimum twenty-minute soak,” Xiaoshuai instructed, leading the newly-pajamaed Chengyu into the steam-filled room. “And your music is set.”
Chengyu, surprised, looked at the phone Xiaoshuai handed him. The playlist wasn't classical, which Xiaoshuai typically preferred, but a meticulously curated collection of nostalgic 90s C-pop—Chengyu’s secret, sentimental weakness.
“Love,” Chengyu gasped, touched. “You remembered the Jacky Cheung deep cuts.”
“I remember everything,” Xiaoshuai said simply, his voice low. He knew that for Chengyu, true spoiling meant attention to the smallest, most personal details. “I’ve also placed a large glass of iced lemon tea within reach. Drink it all. I’ll be waiting.”
When Chengyu emerged from the bathroom, radiating steam and smelling wonderfully of sandalwood, he found the dining table reset and Xiaoshuai waiting.
Xiaoshuai, the man who usually preferred healthy, predictable steamed vegetables, had gone to extraordinary lengths for dinner.
He hadn't made the grand, fancy meal Chengyu might have expected. Instead, he made the one thing Chengyu loved most after a long, difficult day, but never had the time to prepare properly: Braised Pork Belly with Preserved Vegetables (Mui Choy Kau Yuk).
It was a dish that required hours of meticulous steaming, frying, soaking, and layering—a labor of love that reflected the hours Chengyu had spent stirring congee and making tea.
The pork belly was perfectly tender, meltingly soft, and the preserved vegetables offered a salty, earthy counterpoint. Xiaoshuai served it with a bowl of perfectly steamed white rice and a side of clear, soothing winter melon soup—light, hydrating, and easy on the system.
“No complex flavors, no new recipes. Just pure, comforting familiarity,” Xiaoshuai explained, pulling out a chair for Chengyu. “Eat slowly. There are no deadlines here.”
Chengyu took his first bite of the pork belly. He closed his eyes, an almost sacred expression of contentment settling on his face. “You… you made this for me?”
“I did. I started it during my lunch break. I wanted to give you the same level of unconditional comfort you gave me when I was sick,” Xiaoshuai admitted, his gaze steady.
They ate in a quiet, deep contentment that transcended the need for conversation. Once they had finished, Xiaoshuai didn't even allow Chengyu to think about clearing the plates.
“Final stage of the treatment,” Xiaoshuai declared, leading Chengyu to the sofa.
The pillows were fluffed, the lights dimmed. Xiaoshuai presented the final offering: a meticulously sliced plate of fresh mango, perfectly ripe and sweet—a simple, elegant dessert.
Xiaoshuai settled Chengyu on the sofa, covered him with the fleece blanket, and then did something Chengyu had done for him a week prior: he sat beside him, gently ran his fingers through Chengyu’s hair, and began to massage his tense neck and shoulders.
“Your muscles are knots,” Xiaoshuai murmured, his doctor's hands applying just the right amount of firm pressure. “You deserve to forget those blueprints, just for tonight.”
Chengyu sighed, a sound of absolute, complete surrender. He leaned his head against Xiaoshuai’s arm, finally relaxed.
“You’re terrible at being spoiled, love,” Chengyu mumbled, his eyes fluttering shut. “But you’re ridiculously good at spoiling.”
“I learned from the best,” Xiaoshuai replied, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head. He continued the massage, watching the tension drain from Chengyu’s features. He knew the pork belly would nourish his body, the bath would relax his muscles, but this—this quiet, focused moment of dedicated, unhurried attention—was the true medicine. It was the simple, profound joy of having the space to care for the one who always cared for him.