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“It’s all in the past.”
Zi’ang’s hand traced down his face, neck, until his fingers caught at Shuhe’s collar. A gentle tug that pulled Shuhe just close enough for Zi’ang’s breath to meet his skin, until warm air brushed his throat.
“Is it really in the past?” Zi’ang questioned.
Shuhe felt like treading a fine line. “You’re the emperor now. You can’t leave the palace.” He wanted to smile, but he didn’t quite feel the warmth.
“But I can see you every day. That’s enough for me.” He was sure his voice revealed nothing, but the words felt off, even to himself.
Then his gaze dropped to those beautiful lips. They curved upwards, but Zi’ang’s expression was just as hollow.
The room fell silent except for the soft splish of water droplets.
Perhaps now was the right time to leave, as he had told Shen Song.
Or should he stay, and do what Shen Song had suggested, spend the night with Zi’ang?
His pulse quickened at the thought alone.
At first, their conversation had gone as Shuhe expected. But with Zi’ang, Shuhe couldn’t fully predict where things were heading. He always found the cracks, slipped through the smallest opening, right past Shuhe’s carefully built-up walls.
Zi’ang’s hand still rested at his collar, the earlier tug had faded into stillness. Thick, white steam billowed from the bathtub and drifted around them, softening the candlelight. But the air was cold. It slipped into Shuhe’s robe and raised goosebumps on his skin.
Shuhe thought about Shen Song’s words. He’s willing to release the prisoners of war. That means that he still has you in his heart. If you want to exploit his trust, you can only rely on your friendship.
Shen Song wasn’t wrong. In all honesty, it wasn’t a bad plan to pretend to be lovers again. Wait for your prey to let its guard down, then strike.
He could do that, for the people and the kingdom of South Hui, for himself and his freedom.
But it felt so wrong, for everything it entailed.
Because here he was, looking at the person he once called the love of his life. Was it all in the past? Or had he only buried his feelings deep inside?
Zi’ang’s voice and eyes still held the same tenderness that had once felt like freedom. His fingers were still at his collar, warm and human. That didn’t fit the plan at all.
Back in the day, when Shuhe had only suspected that Zi’ang was a spy, but wasn’t sure about his true identity, Shuhe had asked him, sitting beside the campfire, When we met again that day at the White Cloud Temple, if I weren’t the Sixth Prince, but just a commoner, would you and I still have ended up like this? Back then, Zi’ang had said he didn’t know.
Tonight, Shuhe asked again, If I wasn’t the Sixth Prince of South Hui, and you weren’t a Red Shadow Guard of North Ji, would we still have ended up here today? The question had lingered between them, heavy and familiar. Yet this time around, he said, I’m sure of it.
Those piercing eyes, with their love and intensity, were still resting on him. Zi’ang had said he didn’t want to hide the truth from him. Didn’t lie to him on purpose.
He shouldn’t believe a single word. All the things that had happened to himself, his brother, his country were his own fault. Because he’d trusted Zi’ang and let him in; believed the words he’d said, though he should have known better.
But when Zi’ang’s tears left wet trails down his cheeks, Shuhe’s chest constricted against his will.
Again, he heard Shen Song’s words in his head. It’s just that only sincere feelings will be met with a genuine heart. Don’t let yourself be trapped just to earn his trust.
Shuhe felt Zi’ang’s hand tremble against his collarbone, small shudders wrecked his body. North Ji’s cold season was worse than South Hui’s. The persistent chill crept into the bath hall, refusing to be chased off even by warm water and dozens of candles.
“You’re freezing because the wet fabric clings to your skin.” His tone was neutral, just stating an observation.
Zi’ang’s eyes changed. Shuhe couldn’t quite pinpoint how, but it wasn’t from the cold or discomfort. It was gone again when he sighed and withdrew his hand from Shuhe’s collar to remove his robe.
The spot where Zi’ang’s touch had just been felt suddenly cold, the space empty. Before Shuhe could think, he leaned forward, chasing the warmth of that touch, the proximity.
Zi’ang stilled. “Are you going to help me?”
Shuhe didn’t answer. His hands moved instead, hesitant but steady, catching the edge of the red robe. Slowly, he drew it from Zi’ang’s shoulders. As the fabric slid down, Zi’ang drew in a sharp breath and his body stiffened. Shuhe kept his eyes averted. He didn’t want to see what he would find in his expression.
When Zi’ang composure returned, his hands went to untie the knot on his belt. Shuhe meanwhile fixed his eyes on Zi’ang’s shoulders, wandering to his collarbone... anywhere but his face. Yet he could still feel Zi’ang’s gaze on him, searching, boring into him, as if trying to read the truth behind every movement.
Shuhe knew Zi’ang was confused, suspicious even. Tonight’s conversations, Shuhe’s touches and glances, his mere presence in the bath hall stood in stark contrast to his behavior since the fall of South Hui. But helping Zi’ang undress was far too easy, too familiar.
Because despite everything that had happened between them, he could feel the longing deep in his bones. Hidden and tucked into a corner he dared not to look.
Zi’ang’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts, “Makes me think of the past, when you fell into the tub…”
Shuhe looked up before he could stop himself. There was a trace of seduction in Zi’ang’s eyes. Just like that day, years ago, when he’d teased him in the bath, arms around him, both their clothes soaked heavy with warm water.
Zi’ang loosened his belt and stood up. The wet cloth fell to the floor with a heavy sound and Shuhe’s breath caught in his lungs. Steam rose from his body, swirling into the cold air between them. It hid nothing. Water droplets ran down his bare skin, catching in the flickering lights of the candles.
Despite the mysterious illness that had weakened Zi’ang’s body, he was still a sight to behold. After all, years of martial arts training had steeled his body, the strength and muscles beneath unmistakable.
Memories flooded back, of nights when those same arms had wrapped around him, when love and trust still came hand in hand.
When he had believed in their promise of a life far away from royal titles, intrigue and countries at war. Believed they would fulfill their shared dream of a small house in the woods.
When they had touched every part of each other’s body, nothing marring love and desire between them.
But Zi’ang turned out just like the dagger he had gifted him: the tighter he held, the deeper the wound.
Shuhe forced his eyes away, though the flush on his neck had likely already betrayed him. The desire he’d thoroughly buried stirred.
He could feel Zi’ang watching him. Shuhe felt the impulse to get up and touch him.
But before the could move, he heard Zi’ang’s teeth chattering and a shivering inhale.
And just like that, the spell broke and Zi’ang sank back into the water with a soft splash.
“Why is it that whenever I see you, it’s cold? Aren’t you cold?” Zi’ang was almost pouting.
When was the last time he had seen such a look on Zi’ang’s face? He couldn’t remember. It was entirely unfitting, for the situation, for the emperor of North Ji.
“I’m freezing.”
“Then join me.”
Shuhe’s throat tightened. He knew he shouldn’t. He should stop this and end the conversation. Leave the room now, before he did anything he would regret.
Don’t become his pet. Don’t stoop that low. Don’t give into his desires.
Don’t give into your own desires.
But wasn’t this the plan?
“The medicinal herbs would be good for my wounds too.” The sound of it felt unreal, detached from his will.
“I’m sorry about your back. Does it still hurt?”
Shuhe tried to think about the wounds on his back. They were healing, yet his heart was still bleeding.
For the innocent architect who changed the layout of his mock-up manor, which cost him his life without ever seeing his grandson again.
For the dead guards who punished him – rightfully – for using Zi’ang’s given name.
For the soldiers of South Hui who died defending their country against North Ji’s army.
And that only began to scratch the surface…
Shuhe wanted to say yes, that the lash marks still burned. But they were healing. However, there were some things no medicine could ever provide relief for. So he quietly shook his head instead.
The floor was hard beneath Shuhe’s knees. Stiffly he rose to his feet, as if detached from himself. He began to undress, piece by piece. Only the rustling of fabric filled the room. His motions were almost ritualistic, as though he were offering himself.
And with each layer he stripped away so much more than just his garments: his dignity as the Sixth Prince, as the fallen Emperor of South Hui.
Think about how he treated you after the kingdom fell. Think about South Hui.
A chill crept through him, sharp and biting. By the time he stood bare, he was reduced to the hull of a man, and his robes lay in a heap at his feet. They resembled the flag of fallen South Hui.
The bath steamed before him. When he placed his first foot inside, the hot water scalded his skin. He welcomed the sting, because it was something he was familiar with.
As he sat down, the water rose to their ribs. Only the sounds of their breaths filled the room.
Shuhe wanted to cover himself again, but instead he just turned his back to Zi’ang, unable to meet his eyes.
Shuhe heard Zi’ang moving in the water. A touch grazed his back, the softest brush that tingled along his nerves. Then Zi’ang’s breath, warm against his shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”
His hair was gently lifted over his left shoulder, out of the way, and warm water was poured over his shoulders. Shuhe’s chest tightened.
He had heard stories of men and women stripped of not only their freedom, but their bodies assaulted, abused, violated.
And yet, though he was a captive under Zi’ang’s control, apart from one stolen kiss on the cheek in the carriage, Zi’ang had never crossed that line.
Because he understood that some things could not be taken. They had to be given.
Shuhe’s fists clenched beneath the water, nails biting into his palms. He had sworn to never be this close to him again. Yet his heart still betrayed him.
The water lapped at their skin and steam drifted between them. For a long stretch, neither spoke, just the quiet rhythm of Zi’ang washing his back, fingers tracing the edges of lash wounds with a gentleness that made Shuhe’s eyes burn. The tenderness was almost unbearable, as if they were still sitting on his bed, promising to marry each other one day.
“Why did you care so much about the cabinet, when you knew the poem – everything – was fake?”
Zi’ang’s hands stilled. Then, he exhaled slowly. “Because you wrote it.”
Shuhe’s breath faltered. A heavy answer, sinking into his guts, churning there.
Because you wrote it.
Twisting inside him, sharp and warm all at once, crawling through his insides up to his heart.
Treacherous, really.
Zi’ang’s soft voice broke the silence:
“Ballad of the Old Sword
I recall my dearest friend, Duan.
The bamboo bow still carries the warmth of your fingertips.”
He paused, hesitating, before he continued.
“We crushed the spring grass on wild paths together.
But suddenly, the rivers and mists of the world scattered us apart.
Where the tender thread once wrapped my hand – I dare not touch again.”
Shuhe should have known he remembered it by heart, and it made his chest ache. Hearing his own words coming from Zi’ang’s mouth was too much. It seemed like he had written them in another lifetime.
Shuhe should have kept his gaze averted, should have armored himself with reason and resentment. Instead, he turned and his eyes found Zi’ang’s face.
He looked smaller somehow, almost fragile, and the remnants of shed tears reflected in the candlelight.
Shuhe reached out before he could stop himself. His thumb brushed the wetness from Zi’ang’s cheek, his touch feather-light. Zi’ang leaned into it, as if he was testing the safety of an old, forbidden wamth.
Everything in Shuhe screamed to pull back. Instead he whispered, “Ridiculous.”
Zi’ang’s breath caught. His eyes, wide and searching, studied Shuhe. Apprehension flickered there, wariness; but also hope.
Shuhe was inching closer, almost as if not on his own accord. Slowly, so slowly.
Drawn to the man responsible for everything he’d lost. His family, his pride, his freedom. To the man he had once given everything to. And he was about to give in again.
“You were, and still are, my greatest defeat.”
Zi’ang didn’t move as Shuhe leaned in. Their lips met softly at first. Just a warm brush, barely there, with only the faintest pressure.
Zi’ang exhaled, a small half-whimper, half-plea, and caved in.
The years of distance and betrayal collapsed under the heat of Zi’ang’s mouth. Shuhe kissed him back, harder, fingers circling to the back of Zi’ang’s neck, with the sudden need to cling to this, to him. As if Zi’ang’s solid, masculine frame was the only thing keeping him from falling, from losing his sanity.
Zi’ang cupped Shuhe’s face with one hand while the other slid into his hair at the nape of his neck. His grip was steady and firm, but tender. Shuhe’s head was spinning.
Zi’ang pulled them deeper, delving into the heat of his mouth. His tongue was slick and sliding against his.
Shuhe’s world was filled with the smell of Zi’ang’s skin – he had forgotten he remembered it. His pulse throbbed low in his stomach and his own arousal stirred. A tightening, a heavy warmth pooling between his legs, despite his head shouting at him to stop.
Zi’ang was getting hard, too. He felt his cock intimately against him beneath the water, hard and hot. The realization hit him with a rush of heat up his spine.
They broke apart, Zi’ang’s face only inches from his, his gaze dark with intent.
While his eyes studied Shuhe’s face, Zi’ang’s hands traced down the sides of his back, cautious and slow, fingertips trailing over skin still tender from half-healed lashes. The bitter irony of remembering and caring about Shuhe’s physical wounds.
Shuhe hated that he leaned into the touch. That it made his chest ache.
Zi’ang’s hands stopped at Shuhe’s hip bones, tracing up and down, but not going any further. Contemplating, almost as if asking a question.
Shuhe really shouldn’t, but in response his own hand traced from where it was on the back of Zi’ang’s neck, down over his collarbone, his shoulder, to his ribs, down further. He relished the emotions that flickered in Zi’ang’s face. Loved the way he was the one causing the turmoil.
When his hand entered the water, the resistance added to the unreal sensation. His fingertips slid along Zi’ang’s abdomen until his fingers curled around Zi’ang’s cock.
Zi’ang sucked in a quiet, broken sound at the contact, hips jerking forward. “Shuhe…”
The way Zi’ang said his name almost undid him.
Shuhe stroked him slowly. Zi’ang joined him, wrapping his hand around Shuhe’s arousal. Good, so good. They moved together, the water around them creating uneven waves. It felt nothing like the lonely nights Shuhe had spent trying to forget him.
Zi’ang’s forehead dropped to Shuhe’s shoulder, his breaths ragged, hot pants against his collarbone. “Do you... want to…?”
Shuhe’s body reacted before his mind could form words. The heat in his neck and cheeks, the way his hand tightened around Zi’ang, all must have given him away. He managed a single nod.
Zi’ang swallowed, then rose and pulled Shuhe with him. Warm water sloshed in the tub and cascaded off their bodies. Zi’ang had one hand on the wooden rim of the bathtub, with the other he supported Shuhe.
The cold had Shuhe gasping, chill air biting into his skin, the stone tiles freezing beneath his feet compared to the warm bath. He wrapped his arms around himself and his arousal flagged under the temperature shock. With it the world came rushing back with painful clarity. What was he doing? He should –
But Zi’ang was back in an instant, closing the distance between them and wrapping the small silk towel from the bathtub rim around Shuhe’s shoulders in an effort to warm him. But with the cloth around his back and Zi’ang pulling the ends, there was no escape. Shuhe pressed his hand against Zi’ang’s chest in a vain effort to stop him, pushed against his chest ever so slightly.
Zi’ang let go of the towel, caught his hand and pressed it flat against his heart.
“Can you feel it?” Shuhe felt it pounding beneath his palm, fast and unguarded. His gaze was tender, and he looked younger. Like the man Shuhe once fell in love with. “It’s always been yours.”
“Come with me. This way.” He laced their fingers together, turned and pulled him along. “The drying room is warmer too.”
Shuhe’s feet remained rooted to the spot.
He should refuse. Walk out now. This was the perfect exit.
By now, whatever the plan had been to make Zi’ang trust him again, he had completed his mission.
Yet when Zi’ang tugged his hand again, he followed. Half because he’d welcome the promised warmth, half because his legs moved on their own.
The towel slid from Shuhe’s shoulders when he moved, falling to the wet tiles with a soft slap, but neither bothered to pick it up. The sight of Zi’ang’s back brought back the days when they held hands as children.
Past the curtains, the room was small. Heat radiated from a charcoal brazier beside a low couch draped in dark red fabric. Warm air enveloped them as they stepped inside, carrying the earthy and sweet scent of sandalwood.
Not the inaccurate kind Zi’ang had first used in his replica residence; no, this was the same scent Shuhe had used in South Hui. Just like during the tea ceremony, when the maid lit the incense stick for him and proudly said she’d been specially trained to brew Longjing tea in the South Hui style. For him.
“I didn’t know you liked sandalwood that much. Who told you where to get the right kind?”
Zi’ang reached for two silk towels from the racks along the wall, pausing. His face was as unreadable as his voice. “I ordered a palace maiden questioned at the prisoner-of-war camp.”
Instead of handing one to him, Zi’ang began to dry Shuhe first. He squeezed water from his long hair, then dragged the soft fabric across his damp skin with slow strokes, gathering droplets from Shuhe’s chest. The silk was smooth. He drew the towel down his sternum, and lower, eyes always following along.
Shuhe’s stomach tightened as Zi’ang continued downward, the towel tracing the line of his abdomen until it lingered close to Shuhe’s groin. Dangerously close.
Not giving himself time to think, Shuhe reached for the other towel, fingers brushing Zi’ang’s wrist, and began to dry him too. He worked over Zi’ang’s shoulders, the muscles in his arms, the skin on his chest, the firmness of his stomach.
Zi’ang’s eyes closed at the contact, a soft breath escaping his lips. “I also didn’t think I’d come to like sandalwood that much.”
Water beaded at the trail of hair leading lower. Shuhe adjusted his hold on the towel, grounding himself with the piece of cloth. Zi’ang was hard.
“But during the time I stayed with you at your manor, the scent was always around. It clung to your robes, to your hair, to your skin.”
Shuhe swallowed. He didn’t know how to respond. It was too intimate, too familiar. He wanted Zi’ang to smell his hair, his skin. He was getting hard again too.
When Zi’ang opened his eyes again, he looked at him with unguarded desire.
There was not enough air in Shuhe’s lungs.
Zi’ang took the towels and threw both onto the couch without averting his gaze.
He stepped in and his lips found Shuhe’s again. The kiss lingered, unhurried, Zi’ang’s hands on his upper arms as though he wanted to savor it. He moved to kiss Shuhe’s jaw, down to his neck, alternating licks and dragging his teeth along. Shuhe felt himself unraveling. It felt so good.
He moved his own hands to Zi’ang’s sides, tracing up his ribs to his shoulder blades, pulling him closer until their chests touched.
Zi’ang’s hands moved from his arms to push Shuhe’s hair to the side, so he could kiss him there, back to the crescent shaped birth mark on the right side of his neck. A spot that Zi’ang had always paid special attention to. Zi’ang’s other hand at the left side of his face, keeping him in place. Shuhe felt almost dizzy, his knees weak.
“What do you want?” Zi’ang’s soft voice sent a tingling sensation down his spine.
It took time to work through the haze clouding his mind. To find the words, and not to say what was at the forefront of his mind. The lie that he should tell, the truth he didn’t want to be true: You –
“…For you to keep your word.”
Zi’ang inhaled sharply next to his ear, his grip tightening. “I will.”
Shuhe turned his head to find Zi’ang’s lips again. That intoxicating warmth. How had he gone five long years without those lips on his? He swallowed Zi’ang’s groan from his mouth, a sound that went straight to his groin. His hips rolled forward on their own accord, heat shooting through his stomach.
Suddenly Zi’ang pushed him back, hands on his shoulders. His breath was quick, his eyes on the floor. Or maybe at Shuhe’s cock. He stepped away fully, leaving only cool air where the wall of heat had just been. Shuhe didn’t understand what had happened. He wanted Zi’ang back, almost reaching out.
Zi’ang took two steps to the towel racks and Shuhe understood.
After a brief moment he was back with a small bottle. A massage oil. He avoided eye contact as he handed it to Shuhe, fingers lingering on his, then lowered himself to the low couch. Rolling onto his side, he looked up at Shuhe expectantly. “I thought we might need it.”
The flask was small and made of rough clay, looking like it might belong to Shen Song’s medicine basket. There was no way to make any excuses now, Shuhe knew what was about to come. Zi’ang had always been careful, incredibly attentive. He wouldn’t hurt him.
He settled on the couch beside Zi’ang, half turning toward him. The fabric was smooth against his bare thighs.
When he uncapped the bottle and poured out some oil to warm it between his palms, a delicate, floral scent rose. He huffed, half in derision, half in disbelieve: pear blossoms. The kind that grew in the yard of their childhood hideout. The kind Zi’ang had plucked to brush Shuhe’s chin, the kind he’d said reminded him of Shuhe.
He put the oil down and shoved the memories away.
His cock was heavy against his stomach, aching. He wrapped his fingers around himself and closed his eyes. This was just for himself. To get some relief from the tension that had been building since Zi’ang’s mouth had been on his neck, since their hips had pressed together in the bath.
A soft sigh escaped his lips as stroked himself slowly, spreading the oil to ease friction. Heat gathered under his skin.
The couch dipped slightly as Zi’ang shifted beside him. He heard an uneven exhale before Zi’ang’s tentative fingertips touched his inner thigh. They were slick with the same oil.
Shuhe opened his eyes.
The way Zi’ang looked at him pierced right through his heart. As if Shuhe was something divine he thought he’d never be allowed to touch again. “I want to kiss you everywhere, every part my lips forgot.”
Shuhe’s hand stilled, his stomach tightened. He wanted that. So badly.
Wanted Zi’ang’s mouth on him, wanted his lips wandering, claiming every inch of his body. Let them be his undoing, until he could no longer form any coherent thoughts.
But his pride wouldn’t ever allow him to tell Zi’ang.
So instead, he lay back against the couch, propping himself up on his elbows so he could see Zi’ang’s face. “I don’t think you need to… You seem to remember plenty.”
At that he let his legs fall open, just enough. The only invitation he allowed himself to give.
Zi’ang understood.
He quickly folded a towel and slid it under Shuhe to cushion his back and get better access. Then he moved between Shuhe’s legs, hands spreading across his thighs to hold him open. He pressed his lips to the inside of his knee, a soft kiss at first. Then another. Higher, longer, tasting him. And another. Shuhe’s muscles twitched at each kiss, each lick. The scrape of his teeth, the heat of his tongue. His wet, open mouth traced upwards, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.
When Zi’ang finally took him into his mouth, Shuhe bit back the sound that rose in his chest.
Zi’ang hummed in appreciation around his cock, then dragged his tongue upwards along it’s underside. He pulled off just a fraction, “My memories don’t even come close…”, before he just about swallowed him again. Indeed, memories didn’t even come close…
Shuhe’s head fell back on the soft fabric, his eyes closed, world forgotten. Just the sweet, sweet suction of Zi’ang’s mouth, the drag of his tongue. Shuhe hand cradled the back of Zi’ang’s head, to steady himself, to encourage –
Shuhe sucked in a breath as Zi’ang’s slick fingertip circled the tight ring of muscle, pressing gently. When it eased inside, Shuhe pushed back against it.
The intrusion was shallow at first. It didn’t hurt, it just felt foreign. A reminder of what was coming. A promise.
The finger slipped deeper, then pulled back, matching the rhythm of Zi’ang’s mouth.
When Zi’ang hit that spot inside him, Shuhe’s hips jerked, his cock pushing further into his mouth before he could stop himself. A broken sound tore from his throat. It was too much, too good. He pulled Zi’ang’s head back.
Zi’ang looked at him, entirely too pleased, and withdrew his finger only long enough to add more oil. Two fingers slid inside, deeper this time, knuckles brushing against Shuhe’s rim before sinking in fully. Those fingers kept moving, pressing in deliberately, pulling out again. Coaxing him open.
Zi’ang’s gaze kept flickering between Shuhe’s face, his cock, and where his fingers disappeared into him. When he brushed over that sensitive spot inside again, Shuhe’s hips jerked involuntarily.
“Did you think of me?” Zi’ang’s voice was low. “During the time we were apart?”
Shuhe swallowed.
Zi’ang’s fingers were knuckle-deep inside him, and Shuhe couldn't hide. Not the flush on his skin, not the way his cock leaked, not the way he pushed back for more.
Yet somehow, he refused to give the answer Zi’ang wanted to hear. Plan or no plan.
“You sent me a letter.”
At that, Zi’ang’s hand stilled and his eyes narrowed. “You never replied.”
Shuhe loved the effect his words had.
He’d read the letter many times. The formal language, the careful proposal, the unspoken plea between the lines. For a brief moment he had even considered if he should swallow his pride and accept Zi’ang’s proposal.
Then he had looked at the dagger beside his pillow, the one Zi’ang had given him with promises about protection, about remembering.
For once even his ministers agreed: his brother’s murderer didn’t deserve a reply.
“I sent you your dagger.”
Zi’ang huffed. He looked hurt. Or maybe angry.
In one swift motion, he pulled his fingers out completely. Shuhe managed not to whimper at the loss.
“When the maid handed me the dagger…” Zi’ang took the bottle, poured out some oil onto his palm with deliberate slowness. “… and said this was the only thing the emperor of South Hui sent back, I was furious.”
The same hand wrapped around his own cock, slicking it with oil. He stroked himself slowly, eyes never leaving Shuhe’s face. A low sound escaped Zi’ang’s lips and Shuhe’s mouth went dry. It didn’t quite sound like a moan, more strangled than deliberate.
Shuhe wanted to crawl across the couch and replace Zi’ang’s hand with his own, wanted to take him in his mouth, wanted to sink down on him. Either or all would do.
“I stabbed my desk with it.” Zi’ang’s breathing became rougher, his grip tightened. “Left quite a mark.”
Shuhe pushed himself up on his elbows without thinking, needing to see better. The shift pulled his half-healed skin, but he didn’t lie back down. He couldn’t look away from Zi’ang’s moving hand, from the oil slicking each stroke, from the way Zi’ang’s cock was flushed and so hard.
His own hand dropped to his cock before he could stop himself.
Zi’ang’s eyes tracked the movement, lips parted. Despite the tension, the cruelty and the wound Shuhe had just reopened, there was almost a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Pained. Rueful.
“The more you care about someone, the more they can hurt you.”
Zi’ang reached for more oil, poured it over his fingers. When he pushed three fingers in this time, it wasn’t careful. The stretch was more intense this time, rougher. Shuhe’s hand faltered on his cock.
“Don’t stop.” Zi’ang’s fingers curled inside Shuhe deliberately, hitting that spot. “I want to watch you touch yourself.”
But Shuhe had other plans. He shifted his weight, put his hand on Zi’ang’s cock instead. Sharp pain flared in his back, one healing wound catching wrong, but he didn’t care. He wanted his hand on Zi’ang more than he wanted the absence of pain.
“Or you touch me…” Zi’ang sounded breathless, dumbfounded. His fingers tried to match Shuhe’s rhythm but his coordination was slipping.
Zi’ang’s cock was hot in his hand. It conjured the thought of Zi’ang inside him again, of feeling him tomorrow when he moved, when he sat down, when he tried not to think that any of this had happened.
When he wanted it to happen again.
It overwhelmed him. Desperation burned low in his gut, spreading outward until his back arched on it’s own, trying to take those fingers deeper.
A moan tore from Zi’ang’s mouth. “Are you trying to make me come like this?” His free hand caught Shuhe’s wrist, stopping him.
“No.” Shuhe removed his hand, Zi’ang’s fingers slipping out as he lay back down. He spread his legs wider. “I want you inside me.”
He saw Zi’ang swallow. “Not yet. Let me – ” Zi’ang reached for more oil.
But Shuhe didn’t want to wait any longer. He had waited five long years already, yearning for the man he should have forgotten. “You can’t hurt me any more than you already have.”
A low blow, and Shuhe knew it. Zi’ang’s hand stilled on the bottle. His fingers tightened around it, and for a moment he didn’t move at all. When he finally poured the oil, his movements were almost too controlled. Like he was forcing himself not to respond to what Shuhe had just said.
Instead of more preparation, Zi’ang slicked his cock once more. Shuhe watched, mouth dry, pulse heavy in his throat. How the muscles in his stomach tightened with his stoke. He could almost taste the want for Zi’ang on his tongue. He wanted to feel him so badly, he could barely contain himself.
Zi’ang crawled forward, positioned himself between Shuhe’s thighs. One hand around his cock for guidance, he aligned himself with Shuhe.
And then Zi’ang pushed in, just the head at first. The initial stretch burned, as Shuhe’s body tried to accommodate to the intrusion. He forced himself to relax, trying to steady his shallow breathing. It always seemed like Zi’ang wouldn’t fit, but he knew he did.
Zi’ang paused. His hand moved to Shuhe’s hip, thumb caressing his skin. “Relax.”
Such a small touch shouldn’t be this reassuring. As if saying, I’m here, I’ll take care, I won’t hurt you.
Shuhe exhaled slowly, consciously loosening the tension, and Zi’ang pushed deeper. The stretch intensified, bordering on too much. Shuhe’s hand found Zi’ang’s waist and his fingers dug into it.
Zi’ang stilled again. His arms were shaking. “Tell me if – ”
There was no way Shuhe wanted him to stop. “Keep going.” He tightened his grip on Zi’ang’s waist and pulled him forward, feeling the muscles flexing beneath his fingers.
Zi’ang sank in another inch. Then another. Filling him, spreading him open. Shuhe’s breath came in shallow pants. When Zi’ang finally bottomed out, Shuhe could feel him deep within. His body was clamping down around Zi’ang’s cock, adjusting to the intrusion, the stretch, the impossible fullness.
The feeling was overwhelming. Not just physical, but emotional. This was the intimacy Shuhe had sworn he’d never allow again. The vulnerability. The trust required to let someone inside your body like this. And it was Zi’ang, had always been him, no one else.
Shuhe suddenly needed to know. “Did you take someone else to bed?” His voice was steadier than he felt, breath rapid. “In the five years.”
Zi’ang groaned and collapsed forward, hips grinding into him, balls pressing against his ass, as if to bury himself inside. His hands landed on either side of Shuhe’s head, arms shaking. “No. It’s only ever been you.”
The words settled behind his ribs and squeezed.
Zi’ang pulled out slowly – agonizingly – watching Shuhe’s face. “Did you?”
Jealousy threaded through his voice. Like when he was drunk out of his mind over Princess Wenjing. Or when he asked about whether Shuhe knew how to tie people to their beds. It was wrong, but it made Shuhe feel wanted. Wrongly, selfishly wanted.
“I thought about it.”
Zi’ang’s hips snapped forward with a grunt. The force of it punched Shuhe’s breath out.
“But you didn’t.”
Shuhe didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because the truth sat between them as Zi’ang finally started to fuck him.
Above him, Zi’ang’s mouth was open, every muscle in his arms locked and trembling. His pace was slow, but his thrusts powerful, driving Shuhe insane. Shuhe’s hands scratched along Zi’ang’s back, feeling the muscles contracting beneath the skin. He moved his hips in time with Zi’ang, clenching around him, trying to get more. More friction, more contact, more of him.
Zi’ang leaned down, nipping and biting along his jaw, his neck. Found the crescent birth mark and pressed his mouth there. Shuhe gasped, tilting his head back to further expose the line of his throat. Hot breath ragged against Shuhe’s skin, sent pleasure through his body. Zi’ang’s touch felt like fire, scorching everywhere it landed.
He still had Zi’ang in his heart, rooted there, unable to tear him from it. Knowing it was wrong, yet falling deeply into it.
Shuhe gripped Zi’ang’s right shoulder, fingers finding the puckered scar there. The arrow meant for him. The blade he'd driven in himself.
Zi’ang’s rhythm faltered. He knew what Shuhe was touching. Their fatal bond, hopelessly tied together.
Shuhe pressed harder, nails digging in slightly.
A strangled sound dropped from Zi’ang’s mouth that went straight to Shuhe’s cock.
He was hard, so hard. Had been hard this whole time. His cock was trapped between their bodies, dragging against Zi’ang’s stomach with every thrust, slick with oil and saliva.
Shuhe wanted – needed – more. Wanted Zi’ang deeper, wanted the angle that would make him lose his mind.
He hooked his leg around Zi’ang’s shoulder, using his thigh to pull himself up slightly.
The angle changed. Sharper, deeper, and Zi’ang’s cock dragged directly over his prostate.
Shuhe gasped, back arching involuntarily.
Zi’ang groaned, loud and broken. His hand shot to Shuhe’s raised thigh, gripping hard. “You – ” He couldn’t finish. His hips snapped forward, the careful control shattering.
“You feel so good.” Zi’ang’s voice was hoarse.
Shuhe felt the pressure building, his balls drawing up. The burn rising from deep in his gut, with the way Zi’ang’s cock hit his prostate with every thrust, the friction of his own cock trapped between them. “I’m close.”
Zi’ang wrapped his hand around Shuhe’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
It was too much. Too good. Shuhe’s thighs tightened around Zi’ang, trying to hold on, but he felt himself spiraling.
“More.” The word left Shuhe’s mouth before he could stop it.
Zi’ang obliged immediately. His hips driving forward, the angle punishing and perfect. His hand on Shuhe’s cock tightened, stroked faster.
Shuhe couldn’t think straight anymore. Couldn’t pretend this was strategy or manipulation. That this was anything but what it was.
He pulled Zi’ang down into a desperate kiss – because if he didn't, the words would come out. The truth that burned beneath his chest.
I love you. I still love you. I never stopped.
The kiss was messy. Shuhe poured everything he couldn’t say into it. Five years of wanting, of loneliness, of touching himself at night and wishing it was Zi’ang instead.
Zi’ang broke the kiss, gasping.
Another thrust, and Zi’ang’s cock hit his prostate just right. Shuhe’s orgasm ripped through him, starting low in his spine and radiating outward. His cock jerked between them, spilling over Zi’ang’s hand, over his own stomach, hot streaks reaching his chest.
He couldn’t remember the last time he came this hard.
Shuhe’s body was still clenching around him, aftershocks rippling through, and Zi’ang groaned, strangled and desperate. His rhythm shattered completely. A few more erratic thrusts, then Shuhe felt Zi’ang’s cock pulsing inside him, his come spilling deep.
Zi’ang’s whole body went rigid. His fingers dug into Shuhe’s thigh, his other hand clamped on Shuhe’s hip, holding him in place. A shudder ran through him, then another. His mouth was open against Shuhe’s neck, breath coming in broken gasps.
When Zi’ang collapsed on top of him, Shuhe brought his leg down and wrapped it around Zi’ang’s hips. He slung his arms around Zi’ang’s back, pulling him down further. Both of them were still connected together, and Zi’ang’s weight on top of him somehow felt so right.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Shuhe tried to catch his breath, heart hammering in his chest. Zi’ang was a wall of heat pressing him into the couch. The discomfort in his back was only dull. Shuhe’s seed was now smeared between them, but Zi’ang didn’t seem to mind the mess.
Zi’ang’s cock was still inside him, softening slowly. His own cock was trapped between them, sensitive all over. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what came next.
Just let himself stay here, pinned beneath Zi’ang’s body, full of him.
Zi’ang stirred first. He pushed himself up on his elbows, taking some of his weight off Shuhe’s chest. His face was flushed, cheeks red. When Shuhe’s hand came up instinctively to cup his jaw, his skin was fever-hot in his palm.
“Stay.” Zi’ang brushed a few strands of hair from his forehead, eyes studying his face. “For the night. In my bed.”
He should refuse. Should take this as the exit it was and walk away while he still could.
But Zi’ang was looking at him, hesitant, but content and hopeful. Like Shuhe in his bed was the first step back to what they’d had before. Like reconciliation was already within reach.
“Yes,” Shuhe’s greed won. Because he wanted to feel his arms wrapped around him when he fell asleep, wanted to see his face when he woke in the morning.
Zi’ang’s expression transformed. The cautious hope gave way to something brighter, easier. He leaned down and kissed Shuhe, soft and lingering, nothing like the desperate claiming from minutes before.
When Zi’ang pulled his already softening cock out, Shuhe felt the loss immediately. The emptiness where Zi’ang had been, the cool air on his skin. Zi’ang shifted to sit up, reaching for the silk towels they’d used earlier.
Shuhe sat up too, slower. The movement sent a dull ache through his lower back.
And then felt Zi’ang’s release slipping out, now that gravity could do its work. Warm and wet between his thighs, a reminder, impossible to ignore.
Zi’ang was already wiping at the come on his own stomach, efficient and unselfconscious. Then he turned his attention to Shuhe, cloth in hand.
Shuhe wanted to take the towel from him. “I can do it myself.”
Zi’ang didn’t let go. His fingers curled over Shuhe’s, keeping their hands together on the fabric.
“But I want to.” It wasn’t a demand, just a quiet insistence, attentiveness, that made Shuhe’s chest constrict. He released the towel.
Zi’ang cleaned him carefully. Wiped the come from Shuhe’s stomach and chest, then lower, between his thighs where his own release had begun to leak out. The touch was so gentle, Shuhe had to look away. He focused instead on the pale scar of Zi’ang’s right shoulder. The one he touched just before, during sex. A wound that had brought them together. A wound that had torn them apart.
Zi’ang set the soiled towel aside and reached for Shuhe’s hand, lacing their fingers together. His skin was still feverish, ears gone red at the tips. He looked healthier like this. Optimistic.
Shuhe felt something twist behind his ribs.
He had done exactly what Shen Song had suggested: Let him back in, used his feelings. Was planning to run away.
Shuhe’s gaze dropped to the towel crumpled on the couch. It was stained with come and oil, the dark red fabric marked with evidence of what they’d done. Tomorrow, some servant would find this. Would strip the couch, take the towels away to be washed. They’d know exactly what had happened here.
Surrendered, invaded, claimed.
Spreading his legs and loving every second of it.
Except his own feelings had been real. Were real. And that was the worst part.
Heat built behind Shuhe’s eyes. He blinked hard, willing it back, but his eyes watered anyway. A small tear escaped from the corner of his eye before he could stop it. In an effort to hide, he turned his head and wiped it away quickly, pretending to brush hair from his face.
But Zi’ang noticed anyway. His expression shifted. “Is it your back?” His hand moved toward Shuhe’s shoulder, concerned. “Or did I hurt you?”
“No.” His answer came too fast. Zi’ang’s hand brushed over Shuhe’s upper arm.
“I just feel overwhelmed.” It was the truth.
In response, Zi’ang pressed a quick, comforting kiss to his lips. Shuhe doubted Zi’ang grasped the full meaning behind his words.
I hate you.
But that wasn’t true. Not entirely.
“Still, let me just take a quick look.” Zi’ang gently turned Shuhe, so he could inspect his back, fingertips ghosting over the scars. “Seems to be fine.”
He looked at Zi’ang. Looked at the man who’d destroyed his kingdom, killed his brother, taken everything. The man who’d just made love to him like Shuhe was the only thing in the world that mattered.
But I hate myself more.
Shuhe’s throat was burning, his heart aching, yet he refused to let any more tears fall.
Because the truth was worse than any lie he could tell. A battle he knew he had lost the moment he stepped into the bath hall, agreed to Shen Song’s plan.
I love you.
The words echoed in his mind, relentless and damning.
I still love you. I never stopped.
Zi’ang let his hand slide down, found Shuhe’s fingers again, and gave them a squeeze. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
Shuhe nodded, not trusting his voice. He let Zi’ang pull him to his feet, Zi’ang steadying him when his legs felt weak. They were leaving behind a mess. The stained towels, the couch, the massage oil, it all seemed like an accusation he couldn’t erase from his mind.
Zi’ang pulled him toward the door, fingers laced with his. Shuhe followed.