Hot flashes

Zhou Heng had a very long dream.

In my dream, he was still dressed in modern clothes, with short hair, wearing inappropriate coarse cloth clothes, squatting by the mountain stream scooping water to wash his face.

The stream was icy cold. He looked up and saw a boy standing on the opposite bank—about thirteen or fourteen years old, dressed in fine clothes and wearing a jade crown. His eyebrows and eyes had not yet been tempered with the icy coldness that would later appear. He was tilting his head and curiously looking at him.

"Who are you?" the boy asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out.

The scene shifts. The night is deep in the mountains and forests, with flames shooting into the sky in the distance. He pulls the boy by the hand and runs wildly through the darkness; the boy's palm is burning hot, and his breathing is rapid.

The sound of horses' hooves and shouts grew closer and closer behind us.

The two huddled together in the cramped space, holding their breath, able to hear each other's frantic heartbeats.

The boy leaned on his shoulder, his body trembling slightly.

"Don't be afraid." He was finally able to speak, his voice hoarse and unlike his own. "I'll take you away."

The boy looked up, his eyes shining brightly in the darkness.

"You won't leave me, will you?"

He opened his mouth to say no, to say never—

But the boy before her suddenly changed. His eyebrows and eyes had matured, his features sharpened, and he became the Xiao Jue he was today. His eyes were no longer bright, but deep and unfathomable, like a dry well with no end in sight.

"You lied to me," Xiao Jue said.

"I don't--"

"You left." Xiao Jue's voice was calm, as if he were talking about something insignificant. "You left me all alone."

No, I didn't. I wanted to go back; I've been looking for you—

Zhou Heng suddenly opened his eyes.

The first thing I saw was a dimly lit tent ceiling, made of coarse cloth, unlike the familiar drapery of the royal palace's sleeping quarters. A firelight flickered at the edge of my vision, warm and comforting, dispelling the chill of the night from my dream.

He stared blankly at the top of the tent, momentarily disoriented.

"……woke up?"

The voice came from beside me, low and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against iron.

Zhou Heng turned his head away.

Xiao Jue sat less than three feet away from him, leaning against the tent wall, one leg bent and the other casually stretched out.

His dark casual clothes were wrinkled beyond recognition, dark red blood seeped from the bandages on his shoulders, his eyes were bloodshot, and a small patch of stubble had sprouted from his beard. He looked extremely disheveled.

But he was looking at himself.

In the dim firelight, those eyes shone as brightly as a fire-quenched knife.

Zhou Heng opened his mouth. His throat was so dry it felt like it was filled with sand, and he couldn't make a sound.

Xiao Jue's gaze slid from Zhou Heng's forehead to the bridge of his nose, from the bridge of his nose to his lips, and from his lips to his chin, as if trying to confirm inch by inch that this person was still there, still whole, and still breathing.

Then he reached out and took a bowl of warm water from the side.

The bowl was brought to his lips, and Zhou Heng instinctively opened his mouth. The water was warm, sliding down his throat like a life-saving elixir. He drank greedily, choked, and water spilled from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin and neck.

Xiao Jue gently brushed his thumb across the water stain.

"Slower."

After drinking most of the bowl, Zhou Heng finally felt a little better. He leaned against the simple pillow—made of folded clothes, no one knew—and looked around.

It was a tent. A very small marching tent, barely big enough for three or four people. Saddles and food sacks were piled in the corner, and an oil lamp sat on the ground, its flame flickering.

There were faint voices outside the tent, hushed tones, and the content was indistinct.

He looked down and found that his cotton-padded coat had been taken off and replaced with a clean undergarment—not his, too big, with the cuffs rolled up several times.

My left shoulder had been re-bandaged, the bandage neatly wrapped, and the ointment applied to it felt cool and refreshing. The wound on my head had also been given new dressing and was wrapped in a clean strip of cloth.

He raised his right hand and touched the bandage on his shoulder.

"Chen Shen wrapped it," Xiao Jue said. His voice was still hoarse, but it was steadyer than before. "He's gentler than the army medic."

Zhou Heng hummed in agreement.

Then he didn't know what to say.

I clearly have a lot to say.

But those words stuck in my throat, and I couldn't squeeze out a single one.

He simply looked at Xiao Jue.

Looking at the dark circles under his eyes, the bloodstains on his shoulders, the stubble on his beard, and his eyes that were surprisingly bright yet seemed to be weighed down by something.

Xiao Jue was also looking at him.

The two just stared at each other, neither speaking. The only sounds in the tent were the occasional crackling of the oil lamp and the faint whistling of the wind outside.

After a long while, Xiao Jue moved slightly.

He reached out and tucked a strand of Zhou Heng's hair, which was hanging by the pillow, behind his ear. The movement was slow and gentle, as if he were afraid that it would break if he used too much force.

As his fingertips brushed against his earlobe, Zhou Heng felt the rough calluses on it, exactly the same as he remembered.

"You've lost weight," Xiao Jue said.

Zhou Heng felt a lump in his throat.

He wanted to say you've lost weight, to ask how your shoulder injury is, to ask why you came in person, and what the war is going to do—

But as soon as he opened his mouth, his voice choked up.

Xiao Jue's hand paused beside his face.

The hand paused for a moment, then moved downwards, supporting the back of his neck and gently pulling him into its embrace. The movement was very light, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.

Zhou Heng buried his face in Xiao Jue's shoulder, smelling the familiar scent on him—cold iron, sandalwood, and a hint of blood and dust.

Those mixed smells, unclean and unfresh, were what he had been dreaming about all along the way.

He reached out and grabbed Xiao Jue's collar.

It was gripped very tightly.

Xiao Jue didn't speak. He simply tightened his arms around Zhou Heng, pulling him close. So tight that Zhou Heng felt a pain in his ribs.

But he didn't want him to let go.

A long time passed—perhaps only a few minutes, perhaps longer—Zhou Heng's muffled voice came from Xiao Jue's chest:

"You've found me."

Xiao Jue rested his chin on the top of his head and gave a soft "hmm".

Chen Shen's hushed voice could be heard outside the tent, as if he were giving instructions. A night bird cried out twice in the distance, then fell silent again.

Zhou Heng suddenly remembered: "Where's the cloud?"

"What?"

"Cloud. My cat. When it escaped... it disappeared."

Xiao Jue paused for a moment, then said, "Have someone look for it later."

Zhou Heng nodded.

"And," he said in a muffled voice, "the wound on your shoulder..."

"fine."

"I saw blood."

"Flesh and skin injury".

"Liar." Zhou Heng pulled away from his embrace slightly, staring at the blood-soaked bandage. "Was this the shoulder where you were shot by an arrow in Poyang Lake? It's only been a few days, and you've already ridden this far—"

Xiao Jue looked at him.

That gaze made Zhou Heng's voice gradually lower.

"You were unconscious for a day and a night," Xiao Jue said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were so deep they seemed to suck you in. "You kept talking nonsense and couldn't be woken up. Chen Shen went to town to fetch a doctor, who said you were injured on the way and had a fever for so long; you were lucky to survive."

Zhou Heng opened his mouth.

He didn't realize he had been unconscious for so long. He only felt like he had taken a long nap and had a very long dream.

"I……"

"Don't speak yet." Xiao Jue raised his hand and pressed his thumb to his lips. "The doctor told you to rest. We can talk when you're better."

Zhou Heng blinked.

He buried his face in Xiao Jue's shoulder and closed his eyes.

Outside the tent, the sky was gradually turning a pale gray. Birds began to chirp in the distance, their chatter waking the morning.

Chen Shen's voice rang out from outside the tent: "Your Highness, it's almost dawn."

Xiao Jue did not answer.

He looked down at the person who had fallen asleep in his arms again—breathing steadily, brows relaxed, and the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, as if he were having a sweet dream.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he raised his hand and pulled the thin blanket that had slipped down back up to cover Zhou Heng's shoulders.

"Rest for another hour," he said to the outside.

The sound was very soft.

Outside the tent, Chen Shen silently withdrew.

The morning light peeked through the gaps in the tent, casting a thin beam of light on the ground.

The light moved slowly, gradually brightening, and finally landed on Zhou Heng's hair scattered on the pillow, giving the messy strands a faint golden hue.

Xiao Jue looked at him.

His eyes were sore from not having rested for so long, but he didn't want to close them.

He reached out and touched Zhou Heng's fingertips very, very lightly. The fingertips were a little cool, and he held them in his palm, slowly warming them.

Zhou Heng moved his fingers in his sleep and gripped his hand back.

Xiao Jue paused in his movements.

He looked down at their clasped hands.

Then he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the top of Zhou Heng's head.

"Fool," he whispered.

The sound was so soft it was almost inaudible.

"That scared me to death."