The cold dew of the late night stained Dujuan blossoms outside the window. Even the wind that swept down the peaks was chilling. Mingxuan gently placed Xiangge on the bed. He didn't light the lamp, afraid that Xiangge would wake.
Xiangge's closed eyes were still swollen from crying. His cheeks were pale. Even if he was expressionless, his arched brows and drooping eyes always gave him a sad look.
Mingxuan quietly draped the quilt over Xiangge and turned to leave. Suddenly, a hand grasped his sleeve.
In his sleep, Xiangge held the sleeve firmly and did not let go. His brows creased painfully, and his lips mumbled, "Stay... Please stay. I feel... lonely..."
These whispery words scraped something raw inside Mingxuan's heart. His jaw tightened. He slowly sat by the bedside and looked at the trembling child.
Xiangge was having a nightmare again. A tear slid down his cheek. Mingxuan slowly wiped the tear away with his thumb, feeling the warmth of it.
He let Xiangge hold on to the end of his long sleeve and gently caressed his head, his pale fingers ruffling through that impossibly soft black hair.
The touch was gentle and rhythmic and practiced, as if he had done it a thousand times.
Xiangge's mumbling slowly died away. His creased brows eased. He hugged the sleeve tighter and moved closer to Mingxuan.
Mingxuan looked at that face. Xiangge had already grown a lot, a peerless youth with beauty. Not that tiny child with a bright smile and shining eyes.
But still, Xiangge hadn't changed his habits. Even though things had turned sour between them, even in sleep, Xiangge still identified his sleeve.
Mingxuan's fingers paused mid-stroke. A memory stirred, like dew settling on old silk. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bedpost. Years fell away like petals in the wind.
Back then, Xiangge was only two. He would not sleep unless Mingxuan hugged him. He would not listen to Eunuch Zhu or the nannies. He would stay awake no matter how long it took, even if Mingxuan only returned from court after midnight.
And if Mingxuan was late, Xiangge would curl into a tiny ball in the corner of the bed. With puffed cheeks and wet eyes on the verge of breaking into tears, he would angrily bury his face into the pillow, his little fists squeezing the sheets.
He would let out faint huffs of breath, sulking. But the pout on his face was too soft. Too small. Pitiful.
Mingxuan would stop at the door and quietly watch the tiny bundle of anger tossing the softest of tantrums. A helpless smile would stretch his lips. He would take off his outer robes, slide into the bed, gently pull the child closer by the collar, and hug him to his chest.
His untouched dinner would be cold at the desk. But his heart would be full of warmth.
After this happened once or twice, he always made sure to finish court matters by the hour of the dog. He would change his robes and return early, just to lie down with the tiny child curled against him.
Xiangge's soft warmth always made him feel he wasn't empty. He would bury his nose into Xiangge's fluffy hair and take a long, deep breath.
That soft magnolia scent always settled his uneasy mind. It brought him sleep in sleepless nights, like an enchanted incense in the middle of a storm.
In the blink of an eye, many years had passed.
And then, one night, everything shattered.
Eighteen.
Xiangge had been eighteen that night.
He'd entered the imperial chamber with a book of sword spells, as he always did when something confused him.
Mingxuan had been the one person he sought without hesitation, without asking permission first. That privilege had been Xiangge's alone.
But the book never opened.
Mingxuan had been drugged in his wine meant for assassination. When Xiangge entered, he was drunken and had already lost control.
Mingxuan's jaw tightened. He forced the memories down, but they surfaced anyway. Not the act itself. He would not let himself remember that.
Only what came after.
Xiangge had been bedridden for a week. The physicians treated internal bleeding, torn skin.
What he had done to Xiangge that night under the drug's influence left damage that took months to heal.
Xiangge vomited blood for weeks. The physicians could mend torn flesh. But even Rumeng, for all his skill, could not mend what had broken inside Xiangge's mind.
The sheets had been gold that night. By twilight, they were black with blood.
Mingxuan had wept once in fifteen years of rule. That morning, watching Xiangge barely breathe.
Mingxuan shut his burning eyes.
Virginity, once taken, could not be returned.
In his long life of discipline and perfection, that night remained his only mistake. And it cost him everything.
Since that night, he had never seen Xiangge smile again.
Instead, he saw only the cold, expressionless face of someone who hated him to the core, someone who wanted to take his life.
That child would never seek him when confused. Would never call him gege. The boy who had trusted him with everything now trusted him with nothing.
In the end, beneath the mask of the cold Emperor, Mingxuan was still human.
He had the power to rule nations. But not the courage to ask forgiveness.
Asking forgiveness for a mistake wasn't hard. Words can be said, feelings will eventually be revealed.
But…
The impossible part was that he could never forgive himself for destroying Xiangge's life…
Because no matter how tall or striking Xiangge had grown, in Mingxuan's eyes, he would always be that child who once found warmth in his snuggle during stormy nights.
And that was what terrified him most. Because Xiangge was no longer that child. Not anymore.
And still, somewhere deep in his soul, that child's memory remained.
That warmth, that innocence, that trust.
He could not lose it. He could not taint it again. He could not let it be rewritten as sin. Like it happened one year ago.
So Mingxuan only reached out, gently and slowly, to brush aside the strands of hair scattered across Xiangge's cheek.
He looked out the window.
The frost of early spring that rested upon twigs heavy with blossoms melted in the moonlight, dripping icy dewdrops upon the blades of grass below.
Pale pink petals descended from the branches, glittering under the moonlight. The wind was cold.
It was a different kind of beauty.
Enchanting.
Mesmerizing.
But cold. Cold and icy, like his heart.
Mingxuan's eyes were a little moist. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. But his hand never stopped gently caressing Xiangge's hair.
If he let go now, what part of that person will he still deserve to hold on to?
Glossary
Hour of dog (戌时): Roughly 7 PM to 9 PM; traditionally associated with winding down the day, loyalty, and protection, as the dog symbolizes vigilance and guardianship in Chinese culture.
Dujuan (杜鹃): Azalea flowers that bloom in spring; in classical Chinese poetry, they often symbolize longing, melancholy, or unfulfilled love.