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Rong Hao lay slumped against the wall.
For a moment, pity overrode grief in Changheng’s heart. Rong Hao was not meant to be so quiet and still, wearing such ragged clothes as this. He was meant to be smiling and laughing, the life of every party, everyone dancing to his flute’s tune.
Then Rong Hao’s eyes fluttered open. “Changheng-ah.” He coughed, one scraped hand on his bruised throat. “So kind of you to come.”
Changheng took a deep breath. Many people called him an icicle, cold and remote, but they only saw the glassy shine of his armor and looked no closer. Rong Hao, who had stood at his side for so many years, knew better. “How could I not?” Changheng rested his fingers on the door to Rong Hao’s cell. He ached to open the door.
He did not know what he would do if he did.
That uncertainty stilled his hand. Rong Hao gave him a crooked smile, the same one he once gave when Changheng waved off the last jar of wine. “Of course, of course.” Rong Hao sighed. His hand fell down into the straw which lined his cell. Two days ago, he had walked freely among nobility; now, he was in a cell meant for a common criminal. “Would you do me a favor, Changheng? I long for a drink.”
He was, unfortunately, no common criminal. Petty crimes were forgivable. The sins upon Rong Hao’s soul…
There was a reason for the fingerprints ringing Rong Hao’s throat. Changheng wanted to lay his fingers upon them. He wished he could be certain whether they would deepen the bruises or soothe them, the way Rong Hao had soothed his own wounds despite the cost.
Rong Hao caught the flicker of his gaze towards the white streak in his hair. “Would it be easier if I called in a debt?” he murmured, eyes wide and hopeful. “Changheng-gege, I’ve given you so much; can you not at least heal the barest bit of what ails me?”
Changheng closed his eyes. There was a time when it was all he wanted. Even now…
“Come here, Rong Hao.” The words caught in his throat. He looked up as Rong Hao groaned and straw shifted, Rong Hao’s feet dragging as he limped his way over. This close, Rong Hao looked even worse than he’d expected.
Rong Hao grinned at him. Blood stained his teeth. Changheng was only mostly certain it was his own. “Like what you see, Changheng?”
“No.” Changheng reached through the bars anyway. Rong Hao’s clammy skin was all too familiar. Rong Hao leaned into his touch, and Changheng sighed, a dam breaking in his heart. Qi flowed through his hand and into Rong Hao’s cheek, settling into the bruises, purifying the surface if not the soul.
“Thank you,” Rong Hao murmured, his own voice shaky, like this was the first time he was being honest. “I appreciate it, Changheng.”
Changheng withdrew his touch and rubbed his fingers against his robes. The sensation of Rong Hao’s skin didn’t disappear so easily, unfortunately, and neither did the spell of his eyes.
“Would you beg mercy for me, Changheng?” Rong Hao was still close enough for Changheng to feel his breath, the ghost of a kiss they never shared.
They never would, now.
Changheng let out a breath. He had seen what he needed to. The truth lay in the soldiers dead from Rong Hao’s meddling. The wounds he had healed on Rong Hao’s skin were nothing compared to the wounds of the heart.
He had lanced that wound enough; anything further would rip him apart.
“Mercy,” said Changheng, “is allowing you to live.”
He turned away, told himself he didn’t hear Rong Hao beginning to cry, and left.