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It was cold. So unbearably cold. He had only felt this sort of frost once before, and he hadn't been the cause of it that time.
The blonde fell onto his side on the icy floor. A white fog escaped his lips every time he exhaled. The sound of rushing footsteps echoed through his ears.
They eventually came to a halt in front of him. The large figure crouched down, and finally Yanqing could see who it was.
"General..?"
A calloused hand rested atop his hair, gently stroking it. The touch felt warm. It felt familiar. And nice. But it didn't stop the chill permeating through every crevice of his body.
He thought he heard something crack. The hand gently nesting through his hair stopped, staring at him with.. a fearful look? Why was the General scared?
Was.. was he the cause of the crack?
He couldn't tell. Everything felt numb.
A frozen hand reached out to try and tug at the end of Jing Yuan's pant leg. Frozen? Was that his hand? Why was it covered in ice? Why.. why was the ice red?
No. Unimportant. His limp hand laid near the General's foot. The General lifted up his hand himself. Yanqing could feel nothing. Ah, wait. Wasn't it cold?
He tore away his hand, and rested it on his chest. Was that ice? Why was it on his chest now, under his hand. He wasn't controlling it. But it was his ice, was it not?
His vision turned blurrier. All he could see were blobs of colour. The most prominent colour was red. Like the deep red of the General's ribbon, fixed in his hair.
Or like the red liquid seeping into the crystals on his chest.
Crack.
A scream resounded in the open arena. It was loud. Wait, no, was that his voice? Was he the one screaming?
...That was embarrassing.
His attention turned back to Jing Yuan, ready to apologise, but no sounds came from his mouth. He couldn't speak. Why couldn't he speak?
The General looked like he was panicking. But Yanqing had never seen him in such a state before. He was always calm and composed, even in the direst situations. It felt weird seeing him in this state.
Yanqing couldn't even hear what he was talking about. His ears were ringing. Only bits and pieces of information reached him.
"What's wr— "
"—ar me?"
Was he talking to him?
He was the one making Jing Yuan look so terrified?
It was his fault.
He's sorry.
Finally, finally he could say something. "..Bàba."
A small, delicate whisper. So quiet that barely anyone would be able to hear it.
Jing Yuan stilled nonetheless. He resumed his ministrations through Yanqing's messy hair, untangling knots and combing through it.
Yanqing blearily looked up. Were those tears in his eyes? Was he the cause?
"Don't.. cry." His throat hurt from just mumbling such simple words. "I'm so-..rry..."
He heard his father choke back a sob. "Don't— .. —logize."
Yanqing closed his eyes. He was cold. And numb. So what was the warmth in his heart?
He felt his head being lifted and laid on something. When his eyes opened, he found himself staring at white. It took him several seconds to realise it was hair.
He closed his eyes once more. (not knowing this time, they would never reopen.)
"Bàba.." The young boy called out.
"It's..—" Jing Yuan's voice sounded weak. "Rest now, xiǎo yàn."
Yanqing felt warm.
One heartbeat.
Two.
.
.
.
But where was the third?