Chapter 487 Will You Come Again?

Chapter 487: Will You Come Again?

The child swallowed the biscuit, his Adam's apple bobbing violently, as if forcing a stone down his throat.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, those phoenix eyes were looking at Cheng Ge once more.

The corners of his eyes drooped slightly, carrying a hint of poorly hidden timidity, like someone afraid of being turned away.

Cheng Ge sat down beside him.

The straw was damp, pressing beneath him, water seeping into his pajama pants, cool and damp—he didn't pay it any mind.

As he sat, his shoulder pressed against the child's. The child's shoulder was thin, the bones jutting out, like two thin blades digging into Cheng Ge's arm.

Cheng Ge didn't move away. He braced his hands behind him and looked up at the sliver of moonlight streaming through the hole in the roof.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The child was silent for a moment.

His lips moved a few times, like a fish flopped onto shore, opening and closing, closing and opening.

Finally, he squeezed out three words from his throat—soft, slow, like reciting something important: "Yun Xunyu."

Cheng Ge repeated it, his tongue tripping, the syllables coming out twisted.

"Yun Xunyu." He said it again, smoother this time, like a bead finally rolling into its proper groove.

Cheng Ge turned his head, looking at Yun Xunyu's face. He slowly extended his hand, pointing at the largest bruise on the child's arm.

His finger didn't touch it—just hung suspended above the bruise.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Yun Xunyu looked down at the bruise on his arm—purple-blue, dark at the center, like a flower that had bloomed and wilted, petals rotted away, only the core still stubbornly holding on.

He looked at it for two seconds, then looked away, his voice so soft, as if he were talking about something that had nothing to do with him: "I'm used to it."

Cheng Ge looked at him for a long time.

His finger still hovered above the bruise, neither settling nor pulling back.

Moonlight streamed through the hole in the roof, falling on his finger, on the child's arm, turning that patch of purple-blue skin a pale white, like a piece of paper crumpled by someone's hand, impossible to smooth flat no matter how you tried.

There were voices outside.

They drifted through the crack in the door—not loud, but every word perfectly clear.

"How much longer?" a shrill, raspy voice asked.

The other voice paused to think, then said: "Soon. Once this round of poison runs its course, we can take a break."

"This emperor is ruthless too—even willing to sacrifice his own flesh and blood, his own son."

"Eh, just a bastard born to a servant girl. The Crown Prince is destined for the throne, so of course he's precious. This bastard's blood being used to save the Crown Prince—that's his good fortune."

"True. And the blood works better with a blood relation. Otherwise, the emperor wouldn't have sent him here in the first place."

The footsteps faded, the voices faded, scattered by the night breeze, shattered into fragments, falling piece by piece into the courtyard, under the moonlight, into Cheng Ge's ears—impossible to gather up.

Cheng Ge sat there, shoulder against Yun Xunyu's shoulder.

He felt Yun Xunyu's body was completely still, like a dog that had been kicked, cowering in a corner, not daring to bark, not daring to run.

Cheng Ge pulled his hand back, braced it behind him, and didn't ask again.

He lowered his head, looking at the fluffy slippers on his feet, printed with little bear faces.

One bear's nose had been worn off, leaving only two black nostrils.

He stared for a long time, so long his eyes grew sore.

He turned to the side and cupped Yun Xunyu's face in his hands.

His hands were tiny—smaller than Yun Xunyu's face—palms pressed against those sharp cheekbones, fingertips brushing the scabs and bruises.

Yun Xunyu didn't flinch. His eyes looked at Cheng Ge through the swollen slits of his eyelids.

There was no fear in that eye, no wariness—only a quiet calm.

Like someone who had been submerged in deep water for a long time, suddenly dragged ashore, not yet knowing what expression to wear when facing the people on the bank.

Cheng Ge lowered his head, his lips brushing gently against Yun Xunyu's forehead.

So light, like an apricot blossom landing on water—no sound, only small ripples spreading outward.

Yun Xunyu's forehead was cold. When Cheng Ge's lips touched it, his blood-stained lashes trembled once, then again.

"Mom said," Cheng Ge's voice was small and soft, like a freshly steamed rice cake—sticky and sweet—"a kiss makes the pain go away."

Yun Xunyu looked at him, for a long time.

The light in those phoenix eyes slowly brightened, like a lamp whose wick someone was carefully tending.

The corners of his mouth twitched, wanting to curl up, but they wouldn't—like he hadn't smiled in so long that the muscles in his face had forgotten how.

But his eyes were smiling, curved like two crescent moons, moonlight falling into them, making the crescents gleam.

Cheng Ge sat down beside him, shoulder against shoulder, his head slowly tilting to rest on Yun Xunyu's shoulder.

Yun Xunyu's shoulder was thin, the bone pressing hard against Cheng Ge's temple—but Cheng Ge didn't move away.

His eyelids grew heavier and heavier, as if someone had placed two lead weights on them. He wanted to open them but couldn't; he didn't want to close them, afraid of missing something if he did.

His breathing gradually evened out—from quick to calm, from calm to long and deep.

Yun Xunyu didn't move. He sat there, letting Cheng Ge lean on him, his shoulder stiff and rigid.

His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled, nails split, scabs black—he didn't look down at them.

He turned his head, looking at Cheng Ge's face as it rested on his shoulder. Cheng Ge's face was small—smaller than his.

His lips were slightly parted, breath slipping through the gap, carrying a faint scent of milk.

"Will you come back?" Yun Xunyu asked.

His voice was so soft, as if afraid of disturbing something, soft as someone murmuring in a dream—spoken and then forgotten.

Cheng Ge mumbled a drowsy "Mm" in response.

His eyes didn't open, as if he'd heard, or perhaps hadn't, just responding on instinct before going still again.

Yun Xunyu looked at his face for a long time. He slowly raised his hand from his knee, wanting to touch Cheng Ge's hair.

His hand stopped halfway and retreated, as if afraid his hand was too dirty and would soil Cheng Ge's hair.

He placed his hand back on his knee, fingers curled, fingertips pressing into his palm, leaving crescent-shaped marks.

Cheng Ge's voice came again, muffled and thick, like it was wrapped in a thick layer of cotton: "You can come find me."

Yun Xunyu's hand paused.

He looked at Cheng Ge, whose eyes were still closed, breathing long and even, as if already asleep.

But the words he'd just spoken—every single one was crystal clear, like individual pieces of candy falling from the sky.

They fell into Yun Xunyu's ears, into his heart, into that place gnawed by insects, soaked in medicine, called "bastard" by others—that place riddled with holes.

The candies melted—sweet, sticky—filling the holes one by one until they overflowed.

He didn't speak. He just leaned his shoulder a little closer to Cheng Ge, so Cheng Ge could lean more steadily.

Moonlight streamed through the hole in the roof, casting their shadows on the earthen wall.

Like two trees standing side by side, both small—two saplings not yet grown, their roots tangled together, impossible to tell apart.

Fog seeped in through the crack in the door, drowning the straw, drowning the earthen wall, drowning that closed door.

Yun Xunyu's face grew more and more blurred in the fog, farther and farther away.

Cheng Ge's arms were empty. He looked down—there was nothing in his embrace, only a wisp of gray fog slipping away through his fingers.

He heard a voice emerge from the fog, as if drifting from somewhere far, far away—"Sweetheart."

Cheng Ge tried to respond, but his throat felt blocked, and no sound would come out.

He reached out, grasping at the fog, but caught nothing.

His eyes flew open.

The bed canopy hung overhead. Moonlight seeped through the window crack, a few thin strands falling onto the pillow and onto Yun Xunyu's white hair.

Yun Xunyu was still asleep, his lashes lowered, casting a fan-shaped shadow beneath his eyes, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned, as if lost in a pleasant dream.

Cheng Ge looked at the white hair scattered across the pillow, reached out, and brushed the strand of white hair falling across his cheek behind his ear.

His fingertips grazed his cheekbone—cold, like a leaf untouched by the sun.

Cheng Ge withdrew his hand, pulled the blanket up higher, covering Yun Xunyu's exposed shoulder.

He didn't sleep. He kept his eyes open, watching the moonlight leaking through the window crack.

The moonlight moved slowly across the wall, from one end to the other, like someone walking from far away, walking all night, still not arrived.

He reached up and touched his own lips.

On his lips lingered the temperature of that forehead—cold, like a stone pulled up from a deep well.

He lowered his hand and took Yun Xunyu's fingers in his own.

Yun Xunyu's fingers stirred in his palm, like a response, or perhaps just an unconscious twitch.