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Zhao Yuanzhou knows it before anyone else -- before Zhuo Yichen will even admit it to himself, let alone take any action on account of it. In some ways, it reminds him of a wounded animal's instinct to slink off and lick its wounds in private -- which is both a rather comical mental image when applied to Zhuo Yichen, of all people ... and one that manages to tug at his heartstrings, because Zhou Yichen, of all people, has already been through enough -- already knows far too intimately the pain of suffering alone.
In Zhao Yuanzhou's estimation, a head cold seems a rather stupid thing to try to hide, but Yichen's stubbornness is almost commendable.
It's also stupid.
(And stupidly endearing.)
And so, when Yichen sneezes loudly and violently enough that Bai Jiu screams, nearly tripping over his own feet from surprise, Yuanzhou can't quite hold back the snort of laughter that escapes him, nor the subtle yet amused shake of his head. Wen Xiao's gaze meets his, then; one of her eyebrows arches up: an unspoken question. Yuanzhou grins in earnest, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.
"Amazing!" Ying Lei's booming voice floats down from several meters ahead of them. He's got one hand on his hip, the other patting Yichen's back, and a look on his face that suggests he's not going to miss out on such an opportunity. "You can even make Xiao Jiu and I go deaf! What can't you do?"
"Shut up," Yichen sighs halfheartedly, and Ying Lei's mouth snaps shut obediently.
Bai Jiu's gaze flits from the former to the latter, lips pursed as if he intends to speak. Yichen manages to make a sniffle look dignified, then takes Bai Jiu's hand in his own (this earns a delighted smile from Bai Jiu.) "It's late," he says, sniffling again (less dignified this time), "let's go."
Zhao Yuanzhou only narrowly ducks into his sleeve fast enough to conceal the broad grin that follows.
When Zhao Yuanzhou finds him again, Zhuo Yichen is in the library, dozing off over a book. His candle's nearly burnt out, the tea next to him long gone cold. Upon closer examination, there's a faint sheen of sweat beaded on his brow, his breathing coarse, each too-hot exhale leaving him as a little puff of vapor. He's also, Yuanzhou notes with no small measure of fondness, almost incomprehensibly beautiful -- hard and soft in all the right places and in all the right ways. His fingers twitch briefly at his side, the desire to reach out and run them through inky-black locks (how dare they fall into Yichen's face so poetically) nigh insurmountable.
It's the only temptation he manages to resist, however: with little more than a simple gesture, one of the heavier volumes in Yichen's scholastic spread tumbles unceremoniously into his lap. He startles awake with a jolt -- and seems none too thrilled to be met by Zhao Yuanzhou's impish grin.
"I thought you were a monkey, not a cat," he croaks, reaching up to briefly touch his throat as if it hurts to speak. He picks the book back up, carefully setting it back alongside its companions, and stares at Yuanzhou in silent demand for an explanation -- and, in all likelihood, an apology, too.
All of this -- it has no right to make something stir in Yuanzhou's chest the way it does, but it does.
"White ape," he corrects patiently, his expression beatific. "And this is a library, not a bedroom. You'll get chilled sleeping here, and that's the last thing you need when you're --"
Zhuo Yichen sneezes, accidentally knocking over his long-gone-cold cup of tea in the process.
"-- sick," Yuanzhou finishes, one eyebrow inching up, amusement written in every line of his face as he watches Yichen scramble for a handkerchief in a desperate attempt to mop up the tea before it seeps into one of Wen Xiao's favorite tomes. For someone normally as poised as he, it's a remarkably uncoordinated movement. Yuanzhou can only sigh, and then --
"-- let me."
He closes the remaining distance between them in the blink of an eye, airily brushing Yichen aside; as Yichen watches, expression unreadable, Yuanzhou makes quick work of the rest of the spill, then flicks the handkerchief completely dry.
And he'd be a liar indeed if he said he didn't take note of the way a fierce blush blossoms across Yichen's cheeks a moment later, when said handkerchief is pressed firmly into his hand.
(Or the way said hand is the same sort of perfect contradiction as Yichen himself is: slender but undeniably strong, soft-skinned yet punctuated with calluses that tell the tale of a formidable warrior ... and so very, very delightfully warm.)
Yuanzhou's own hand lingers. He can't help it. It's only the tips of his fingers brushing against Yichen's palm -- a faint bit of contact that somehow feels like the spark that ignites a roaring flame. Yichen won't meet his gaze, his own eyes instead fixed unblinkingly on the spot where their hands rest.
"Zhao Yuanzhou," he manages at last, willing some semblance of authoritativeness into his tone, "why exactly are you here...?"
The moment fades. Yuanzhou shakes off his reverie, replaces his pensive moue with a more characteristically teasing one. "I forgot," he replies innocently.
Yichen glowers at him, and Yuanzhou laughs, bright and unrepentant.
"You two were up late last night."
Wen Xiao peers at Zhao Yuanzhou over the rim of her teacup, her expression managing to be equal parts disarmingly innocent and incredibly knowing. It's a particular skill of hers, Yuanzhou's come to learn -- very nearly an art form, in fact -- and despite his knowledge of it, he's grown no better at sidestepping her carefully-lain traps. She swirls the cup around delicately, waiting for a response.
Yuanzhou's gaze slides over to the other party implicated in the "you two." What Zhuo Yichen is doing right now could best be described as "enduring": he's hunched over a bowl of something that smells strongly medicinal, inhaling by the (reluctant) lungful the clouds of pungent steam rising from the water contained within. Bai Jiu stands beside him, proudly extolling the benefits of whatever overpowering herbs he's added into this singularly-offensive concoction.
Yuanzhou turns back to Wen Xiao and grins. "Someone was doing some late night reading. I thought I might keep him company."
"Oh," is all she says in response; her disbelief is thinly-veiled -- her entertainment, less so.
The someone in question must either know he's being talked about -- or have the world's most impeccable sense of timing -- and sneezes. It has the unforeseen effect of disturbing the herb-water enough that it splashes up in his face, leaving him dripping, his brow furrowed in a decidedly unhappy moue. It's pitiful in much the same way a puppy tripping over its own feet and falling flat on its face is. The grin that follows is instinctive, and it earns Yuanzhou a well-placed elbow in the ribs from Wen Xiao (who appears to be struggling mightily to fight back a fond smile, herself.)
"Xiao Zhuo-gē!" Bai Jiu yelps, nearly stumbling in his haste to tug the bowl away and dab at Yichen's face with a towel. Yichen splutters, looking wounded.
(Much to Yuanzhou's delight, that same terribly-endearing blush is back with a vengeance. His heart -- that traitorous old thing -- does a stutter-step in his chest for it.)
"Such grace and talent," he muses cheekily, just loud enough as to be certain Yichen can hear him; once Yichen's furious glare is fixed on him, he rests a hand delicately atop his chest, adding, "If looks could kill, Xiao Zhuo-dàrén would have already made good on his promise!"
coda.
Glossy dark hair spills over the faded covers of ancient texts, long since yellowed with age; wax drips onto the table below, slowly hardening into little abstract shapes. Bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight, Zhuo Yichen looks almost ethereal -- as if he could be an illusion that dissipates at the lightest touch.
Zhao Yuanzhou dares to touch him anyway.
It's light and brief -- just the tips of his fingers gently brushing back the ink-dark locks that have tumbled down into Yichen's face. But for now, it's enough to sate the stubborn craving that gnaws at him ceaselessly.
"You're incorrigible," he murmurs tenderly, far too quietly to wake Yichen. He slips out of his cloak, pulls it carefully around Yichen's shoulders -- then watches, enraptured, as Yichen's expression softens -- as he nestles into it, fingers curling loosely around the fabric.
It's been such a terribly long time since someone dared to make his heart stir in his chest, hasn't it -- so long he'd almost forgotten what it feels like: novel, yet familiar; exciting yet terrifying all the same. Like a moth to a flame, he's hopelessly drawn to it, powerless to resist its allure -- but even if he could, he doesn't think he'd want to.
Fingertips dance lightly one last time across the porcelain skin of Yichen's temple -- still warm, but no longer feverish. And that warmth lingers -- tantalizing, captivating, precious -- long after Yuanzhou withdraws his hand.
"Sleep well," he whispers fondly, lips curving up in a gentle smile, "Xiao-Zhuo."