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The moonlight was soft that night, the heavy fog from the storm that was coming temporarily gone in sight, it was gentle, like it pitied the humans enough to give a peaceful tide, but only for humans.
Not for sinners and demons like him.
Zhao Yuanzhou sat at the edge of the bed, quiet as the shadows that clung to his skin. Gone the armor he always wear during the daylight, the strong, cunning, and malicious person everyone has named him. His pride was shelved, his weakness shone the brightest glow in his bare eyes, and all that remained was this one borrowed hour, watching the sleeping Zhuo Yichen.
Yichen looked so tender like this—tucked beneath the padded cotton blankets, his hair tousled, brow unknotted.
At peace.
Zhao Yuanzhou ache at the sight.
He memorized every detail of that sleeping face, the way his fingers curled slightly in sleep, how his chest rose and fell, his lips lightly pursed, his face void with wary, like he trusted the world not to hurt him.
Foolish man.
How could he trust the one who sat here now—who’d once been named a curse and a pure villain in his life?
He slowly leaned in, then stopped midway, hesitated. He let his fingers ghost along the edge of the blanket instead of Yichen's hand.
He didn’t deserve to touch him. Not like this.
Not when the sword resting across the corner of the room, faintly glowing blue, will be the same one meant to take his life a few hours from now.
He remembered the first time Yichen called him by name, that doesn't feel like loathing from his mouth.
"Zhao Yuanzhou, please don't die."
How it sounded like mercy.
How it felt like being seen for the first time.
Yichen, all sharp words, stiff posture and furious discipline—finally understood someone like him.
Had looked at him like he was more than his blood, his kind, his sins.
Like he hadn't hate him for centuries. Like he wasn't the one who ruined his life, killed every person he loved, and cursed him to be left alone, full of hatred against his kind.
Zhao Yuanzhou did not deserve every bit of him. He did not deserve every single glance he had thrown at him, or the smile he had shown him, Zhao Yuanzhou didn't dare to ask for anything let alone dare to ask for his heart, but Zhuo Yichen did anyway.
Yuanzhou closed his eyes, realizing he made a grave mistake for letting Yichen gave his heart to him, and for yearning for it in his stead.
He knew it would end. It always would.
Because Zhuo Yichen had a duty.
And his ending is written in the scrolls.
The demon destined to have the final ending.
The final enemy.
And Yichen would be the final hero to stop him.
That is how their story will end.
But he had chosen to feel his love for his own selfishness.
To make himself feel loved, to let himself feel for once that he's worthy, as a disaster in the world, to have someone who consider him as the most important person in their life.
But out of all, it had to be Yichen. It could've been Wen Xiao. It could've been the Goddess who have been looming around, considers him as someone important and love him like no other. It could've been her. But at the end, it had to be Zhuo Yichen.
He had already took everything from him, and now the last thing he has is his heart, yet he's also taking it away.
But in this sliver of silence, Yuanzhou allowed himself to want.
He wanted to trace the Yichen’s face with his fingers, to memorize his figure under his touch. To press his lips to the place where his pulse fluttered.
To ask, “If it were not fate, would you still love me?”
But he wouldn't dare ask.
Because Yichen might say yes, and that would make dying worse.
Instead, he bent forward, pressed the faintest kiss to Yichen’s knuckles, where no one would see.
Not even the stars.
“I'll be with you,” he whispered. “Even after it ends. I’ll be in every shadow you walk through.”
He stood.
Walked out the door like he hadn’t just shattered into pieces.
Behind him, Yichen shifted in his sleep.
And for a heartbeat, Zhao Yuanzhou let himself believe he was dreaming of him.