Hot flashes

On the seventeenth day of the twelfth lunar month, the capital city experienced its heaviest snowfall since the beginning of winter.

The snow began to fall at night, initially just a light, scattered dusting, like someone sifting flour from the clouds. Later that night, the wind picked up, and the snow became denser, falling like goose feathers, one after another, covering the entire imperial city in white overnight.

When I opened the door in the early morning, the snow on the porch was ankle-deep, and icicles about a foot long hung from the eaves, gleaming coldly in the morning light.

Zhou Heng was woken up by the cold. He groggily shrank deeper into the blankets, but his toes touched something icy cold—Xiao Jue had somehow rolled up most of the blankets and wrapped them around himself, leaving him with only his back and a small corner of the blanket.

Zhou Heng tugged at the corner of the blanket, but couldn't budge it. Xiao Jue was sleeping soundly, his breathing long and even. His shoulders and back were outlined in a smooth line in the morning light. His thin nightgown was rolled up a few inches by the blanket, revealing a section of his waist.

Zhou Heng stared at that waistline for a moment, then reached out and placed his palm on it. Xiao Jue's waist was warm, but the coolness of Zhou Heng's palm caused the muscles there to tense up reflexively.

Zhou Heng curled the corners of his mouth, moved his hand up two inches, and slowly traced the curve of his ribs with his fingertips, as if caressing a piece of exquisite porcelain.

Xiao Jue paused for a moment, then turned over and looked at him with half-open eyes, his gaze still hazy from just waking up, as if looking through a thin mist.

"My hands are cold." Xiao Jue's voice was a little hoarse, low and drowsy.

Zhou Heng pulled his hand back, but Xiao Jue grabbed it halfway and pressed the cold hand against his chest to warm it with his body heat.

"I have a day off today," Xiao Jue said, his voice muffled by the pillow, carrying a lazy satisfaction. "I can sleep in."

Zhou Heng hummed in agreement and buried his face in Xiao Jue's shoulder. Xiao Jue tightened his arms around him, resting his chin on the top of his head, and said nothing more.

The snow was still falling outside the window, and the rustling sound came through the paper window.

The room was warm. The eunuch had added fuel to the fire in the charcoal brazier sometime during the night, and it occasionally made a soft crackling sound, like turning over in a dream.

The sunlight outside the window changed from grayish-white to bright white, then to a rare, almost transparent blue for winter. The snow had stopped sometime ago, the wind had died down, and the world was as quiet as if it had been paused.

After an unknown amount of time, Xiao Jue gently pulled his arm out from under Zhou Heng's neck, put on an outer robe, got out of bed, and walked to the window.

Zhou Heng shrank his neck, opened his eyes, and saw Xiao Jue standing in front of the window, backlit, his profile gilded with a layer of pale golden down by the morning light.

He watched for a while, then slowly sat up. The blanket slipped down to his waist, his hair was loose, and a few strands fell across his forehead.

Hearing the noise, Xiao Jue turned around. His gaze slid from Zhou Heng's face to his shoulder, from his shoulder to his collarbone, and then from his collarbone to the wrist sticking out from under the covers. He paused for a moment, then looked away.

He closed the window, walked back, sat down on the edge of the bed, reached out and tucked Zhou Heng's loose hair behind his ear, his fingertips lingering on the earlobe for a moment, as if reluctant to leave.

Zhou Heng's ears felt slightly hot from the coolness of his fingertips. He turned his head away, his voice soft and sweet from just waking up: "Your hands are cold."

Xiao Jue didn't speak, but simply placed his hand on the side of Zhou Heng's neck. The skin there was so cold that fine granules appeared. Zhou Heng shrank his neck but didn't move away. Instead, he turned his head and rubbed his cheek against the back of Xiao Jue's hand.

Breakfast was served in the small hall of the East Warm Pavilion: a few small dishes, two bowls of hot porridge, a basket of freshly steamed buns, and a plate of osmanthus cake—Zhou Heng's favorite, which the imperial kitchen staff remembered clearly.

Xiao Jue sat down at the table, picked up the bowl of porridge and took a sip. The porridge was made from japonica rice, thick but not greasy, and had a faint sweetness in it.

Zhou Heng sat opposite him, picked up a bun with his chopsticks, took a bite, and the soup was so hot that he gasped for breath, but he refused to spit it out. He just held it in his mouth, his cheeks bulging, like a squirrel stealing food.

Xiao Jue glanced at him, a very slight smile curving his lips, and pushed the bowl of porridge in front of him, which had cooled down a bit, towards him. "Have a sip of porridge first."

His voice wasn't loud, but his tone was like coaxing a child. Zhou Heng took the bowl of porridge and took a sip. The burning sensation on his tongue slowly subsided as it immersed in the warm porridge. He swallowed the bun, pushed the bowl of porridge back, and continued eating with his head down.