Hot flashes

The candles in the Qianqing Palace burned for three days and three nights.

Xiao Jue sat on the edge of the couch. He had been in this position for too long, and his shoulders and back were as stiff as a stone slab. He could hear the cracking of his joints when he moved.

The person on the bed still had their eyes closed, their face as white as rice paper, and their lips devoid of any color. If it weren't for the slight rise and fall of their chest, they would have looked like a jade sculpture.

The imperial physicians knelt on the ground. The head of the Imperial Medical Academy knelt at the very front, his forehead bruised from kowtowing.

He changed the prescription seven times and administered the medicine three times, but the person on the bed still wouldn't wake up. He didn't dare look up at Xiao Jue's face, only staring at the floor in front of him.

"Your Majesty," his voice trembled, "Lord Zhou's pulse has stabilized, but... but for some reason, he hasn't woken up yet. Your Majesty, your subjects—"

Xiao Jue's gaze fell on Zhou Heng's face. It had been three days.

He reached out and grasped Zhou Heng's hand. The hand was icy cold, and he cupped it in his palm, trying to warm it up little by little.

The person on the couch suddenly twitched their eyelashes.

Xiao Jue stared at those two slightly trembling eyelashes, and even stopped breathing.

Zhou Heng frowned, as if he were trapped in a very deep dream, struggling to wake up, but unable to break free.

His lips moved as if he were saying something. Xiao Jue lowered his head and brought his ear close to his mouth.

"Xiao Jue..."

The two words were squeezed out from his chapped lips, as soft as a sigh.

Xiao Jue straightened up, his grip on Zhou Heng's hand tightened suddenly, so much so that his cold fingers became deformed.

"Aheng!"

Zhou Heng's eyelashes twitched again, and then he slowly opened his eyes.

Those eyes hadn't been focused for a long time; they were unfocused, as if seen through a layer of fog.

Xiao Jue's face slowly became clear in the fog, revealing the contours of his eyebrows and eyes, the curve of his nose, the lines of his lips, and the dark stubble on his chin.

Zhou Heng's lips trembled, and then tears welled up in his eyes.

Like a child who has lost their most beloved possession, they wail and cry.

Xiao Jue panicked.

He had never seen Zhou Heng cry like that before.

"What's wrong?" Xiao Jue placed his hand on his cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears, but they welled up again as soon as he wiped them away. "Where does it hurt? Aheng, where does it hurt?"

Zhou Heng shook his head, speechless. He reached out and gripped Xiao Jue's sleeve, his knuckles turning white.

Xiao Jue picked him up and held him in his arms.

Zhou Heng buried his face in the crook of his neck, his tears soaking his collar, hot and burning, each drop searing his skin.

Xiao Jue's hand landed on his back, stroking it gently. His back was so thin it was hard to touch, and every bone protruded, which could be clearly felt even through his clothes.

"Don't be afraid," he said, his voice a little hoarse, "I'm here."

The imperial physicians knelt behind them, exchanging bewildered glances. Xiao Jue waved his hand, and the entire room of physicians, eunuchs, and palace maids silently withdrew. The door closed gently behind them.

The Qianqing Palace fell silent.

Zhou Heng's crying gradually subsided, turning into intermittent sobs, his shoulders still trembling.

Xiao Jue hugged him, resting his chin on the top of his head, his hand stroking his back.

After a long time, Zhou Heng lifted his head from his embrace. His face was a mess from crying; his eyes were swollen like walnuts, his nose was red, and his lips tasted salty from tears.

Xiao Jue looked down at him.

Zhou Heng reached out his hand, his fingers landing on Xiao Jue's brow, gently stroking the furrow.

Zhou Heng's tears welled up again.

"I had a dream." His voice was very soft, as if he was afraid of disturbing something.

Xiao Jue grasped his hand, holding it in his palm. "What dream?"

Zhou Heng looked at him.

I dreamt that you died.

When those five words came out of his mouth, his voice was broken and incoherent. Tears welled up again, sliding down his cheeks and into his hair. Xiao Jue's hand stopped on his back, stunned for a moment.

Xiao Jue looked at him and smiled softly. He lowered his head, his forehead touching Xiao Jue's.

"You're here," he said, his voice very low, "how could I bear to die?"

Xiao Jue's hand landed on his cheek, his thumb wiping away the tears little by little from the corner of his eye.

"Don't cry." Xiao Jue's voice was muffled in his ear, like he was comforting a child. "I'm fine, and you're fine too. Don't cry."

Zhou Heng nodded, but tears still wouldn't stop flowing.

Xiao Jue didn't say anything more. He held Zhou Heng in his arms, placing one hand on his back and patting him gently.

Zhou Heng's illness lasted for a full half month. During this time, Xiao Jue avoided attending the morning court sessions whenever possible, and if he had to, he did so quickly.

After court, he rushed to the Qianqing Palace.

The imperial kitchen prepared a variety of dishes, including stews, porridges, steamed fish, and braised chicken, delivering five meals a day.

Zhou Heng couldn't eat, so Xiao Jue sat beside him and fed him spoonful by spoonful. Zhou Heng shook his head and said he couldn't eat anymore, but Xiao Jue didn't try to persuade him; he just put the bowl down. After a while, he picked it up again and fed him.

The imperial physician would come to take Xiao Jue's pulse every day, and Xiao Jue would stand by and watch.

Zhou Heng found it amusing. "I'm not made of paper."

Xiao Jue ignored him. That night, as they lay down, Xiao Jue reached out and touched his wrist, his shoulder, his ribs. Touching those bones, which felt rough, he frowned, as if he owed someone a debt.