It makes little sense for Tang Fan to continue to take his suppressants, after everything, so of course he stops doing that.

Perhaps a little too promptly, even for him, in retrospect.

It is a relief, unarguably, that he will no longer have to put aside time in his day to fuss with the pharmacist, yes, and he does mean to tell Sui Zhou of this decision rather immediately after the fact of making it. That had been the vital point, certainly, to the whole process. But then all he can picture while he's putting his phrasing together is how smug Sui Zhou will be about it, and just what he'll undoubtedly do with that smuggery, and Tang Fan gets quite… distracted, amidst those explicit particulars. Then he forgets to mention it entirely.

Next thing he knows, he's waking up stuck to his sheets with slick and sweat, easy weeks of warning whiled away thoughtlessly.

"You should have told me," says Sui Zhou the moment he's knelt over him, having followed the stuffy scent of Tang Fan's heat through the siheyuan. "I would have rutted you properly." There might be a mournful note, there, beneath his teasing. Such a romantic.

"I meant to," Tang Fan complains miserably. It is cruel of Sui Zhou to make him feel contrite when he's already in such a condition. His pulse is throbbing thick between his temples, and he can't stop shivering for the fever. He hasn't had a heat since he was young. So far, he is finding there isn't much about the experience that he can say he missed.

Sui Zhou's hands find his ankles, next, in their task of disentangling Tang Fan's limbs from his bedding. Tang Fan can't help the moan he makes, at that touch, or the way he kicks out, trying to spread his legs wider. Wanting room between them for Sui Zhou to fit.

"Patience, Runqing," Sui Zhou chides him. Were Tang Fan not burning, he'd enjoy it; the rasp and catch in Sui Zhou's breath, how it unspools his attempt at idle disaffect. But his blood is roiling in his veins, and his skin feels so hot and taut over his bones he fears it will split. He needs from Sui Zhou his unurgency, the whelm of his unsatable desire. Not this meander-paced gentleness.

"Guangchuan," Tang Fan whines. It comes out strangled, spitty in spite of his dry mouth. "This was for you," is his senseless protest. He is past any shame of its admittance.

It serves to spur him: a growl is the warning Tang Fan gets, and then he is on his back, knocked breathless, Sui Zhou's bulk folding his knees to his chest. Tang Fan feels more than hears the give of the seam as Sui Zhou peels his trousers down his hips, baring little more than the curve of his ass to the splay of his lap. His knuckles brush against Tang Fan's cleft as his hand works between them, quicker than Tang Fan can blink or breathe, and then his grip is prising him apart for the tease of his fat cockhead against his rim.

"Wait," Tang Fan gasps. And Sui Zhou does, damnably, even as Tang Fan writhes beneath his hands, body moving blind in its bind, chasing what it needs. Greedy wet hole drooling slick down Sui Zhou's shaft, soft twitching muscle clinging to his tip, all trying to tempt and swallow him in. "There's so much of you to take," he manages at last. A shaky scramble for sense and saved face, counterbalancing the scream of his every sinew at Sui Zhou's nearness, incompleted. A far last cry of the man as it submits to the subsumption of the beast.

"I know," says Sui Zhou, knowing, blush-reddened mouth crooking around it. "You have taken me with less," he reminds him, in a merciful showing to Tang Fan's transparence. Then Sui Zhou is pushing in with a filthy squelch, fucking him open inch by inch by inch. And Tang Fan takes him without so much a flinch of resistance, because he has taken Sui Zhou with less; because he has taken him in each and every way a man can be held and owned and given. No bows to the Heavens or bondmarks on the skin would dare measure up to the devotion they've themselves built between them, the inextricability of their threading.

It's an age of seconds before Sui Zhou's hips meet him, the slap of their thighs together shoving a sigh free of Tang Fan's chest, hiccupy and sob-wet. Edging out the last of the room needed for him.

Tang Fan expected— something, not unlike when they first fell into bed together at long last, perhaps. When Sui Zhou had fucked him from night until morning, pouring into him all those years of wanting, and Tang Fan had ached for days, afterwards, first from the strain and then around the emptiness. But there is no uprooting, this time. Only the relief of its rightness, the familiar fullness that breaches him to the back of his throat, the pant of Sui Zhou's breath as it staggers into step with his own.

Sui Zhou bears over him, hands finding his face, that ginger touch brushing his hair back from his cheeks, over his mouth. Tang Fan closes his eyes, blurred to unseeing as they are, anyway, between the sweat on his brow and the tears in his lashes. "Please," Tang Fan begs. "Please." Everywhere they are pressed together is blessed panacea, but deep still in his belly is his tindered heat's itching hunger.

Sui Zhou hangs his head low as he braces his hands above Tang Fan's shoulders, bringing their lips just shy of scraping. When he fucks into him without hesitance, this cage of their bodies together stops his force and brusqueness from shoving Tang Fan up the bed; pins him, instead, into the heady envelopment of Sui Zhou's heat, his scent. Tang Fan could taste him, if he could only crane his neck into it, but Sui Zhou is so rough with him, so relentless, that Tang Fan cannot muster the leverage to do more but lie there and take it, the use, whimpering.

It is over swifter than it began, for the rush to get there: the heels of Sui Zhou's palms knead down into him harsh enough to bruise, and Tang Fan yelps, coming over his belly as Sui Zhou grunts against his mouth and spills inside him. He does not knot, which Tang Fan is only sore about when it allows him to pull out while Tang Fan is still shuddering around him.

"I have to feed you," Sui Zhou tells him, hushing the wounded sound he makes.

Tang Fan's first retort to that is an undignified gurgle. After swallowing and unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he feels he's regained his bearings enough for another attempt. "I'm… losing you," is how he dazedly phrases it, thighs pushed together for punctuative emphasis.

"You could use your own hand," is Sui Zhou's charitable answer to that. And, "I won't be long," he promises. "Then I'll fill you again."

"Just go!" Tang Fan relents, flustered. "Just go now."

Sui Zhou does go, then, thankfully, and with haste. And when he does return, sometime after, to find Tang Fan desperately squirming down on his own fingers, he does, at least, show the initiative of taking him by the wrist and settling in over his knees without requiring a reissued invitation.