Work Text:
Yuan Hong didn’t sleep that night.
There was nothing unusual about that. In his line of work, sleepless nights happened more often than he cared to admit. There were reports to write, witnesses to interview, cases that refused to leave his mind even after the files had been closed.
But this night was different.
This time, it wasn’t about a case.
It was about Zhao Shaoshang.
From the moment he had watched, as if in slow motion, a Japanese sword pierce Zhao Shaoshang’s skin, Yuan Hong had felt unable to breathe. It was as though his chest had been clenched tight ever since.
After the doctor treated him, Shaoshang had been calm. Unlike his usual complaining, loud, amusing self, he had become unnaturally quiet, and that worried Yuan Hong even more.
Silence suited him far too little.
When Shaoshang insisted on following Yuan Hong home, insisting that he needed to hide from his father, Yuan Hong hadn’t wanted to admit it, but being able to keep an eye on him eased something inside him. It gave him something to focus on. Having a task—taking care of Zhao Shaoshang’s recovery—was better than drowning in his thoughts.
His thoughts were dangerous.
Dark.
When Shaoshang stole his bed, Yuan Hong protested only out of principle. He had never truly considered forcing an injured man to sleep on the floor.
The room was shrouded in dim light.
The only source of illumination was a small lamp standing on the bedside table. Its yellow glow fell across the bandages wrapped around Shaoshang’s arm and torso.
Yuan Hong had been sitting in the chair beside the bed for hours.
He hadn’t moved.
He hadn’t read.
He hadn’t written reports.
He had simply sat there.
Watching.
Checking Shaoshang’s breathing as though his heart might stop at any moment. Yuan Hong felt as if his own heart could break at any second under the weight of the worry and guilt boiling through his veins.
He checked whether the bandages were soaking through with blood.
Then he did it again.
And again.
And again.
As if eventually he would discover something he had missed.
As if staring long enough could turn back time.
Zhao Shaoshang shifted in his sleep.
Yuan Hong immediately looked up, his pupils narrowing with concern as his arm shot forward, steadying him and preventing him from rolling onto his injured shoulder.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, not expecting an answer from a sleeping man.
“No.”
The response came too quickly.
Shaoshang hadn’t been asleep at all.
“You’re lying,” Yuan Hong pressed gently.
“Of course I’m lying,” Shaoshang replied, opening one eye. “But since you noticed, I guess my acting skills aren’t as good as I thought. I’ll have to start taking lessons from my sister.”
Yuan Hong didn’t answer.
It wasn’t the first joke of the night.
Nor the tenth.
Ever since the doctor had allowed Shaoshang to recover at home, he seemed to have turned his injuries into a personal mission to entertain everyone around him.
Especially Yuan Hong.
Especially him.
Contrary to expectations, Shaoshang wasn’t using his wound to play the part of a helpless invalid, forcing everyone around him to cater to his wishes and demands. Instead, he was surprisingly calm, constantly downplaying injuries he never should have suffered in the first place.
“You know...” Shaoshang said after a moment, “I always wanted to be a hero. Like the ones in children’s novels.”
“You didn’t become a hero,” Yuan Hong replied, his gaze once again drifting away from Shaoshang’s face. Without consciously meaning to, his eyes fell back to the bandages, checking his wounds yet again.
“I got stabbed while saving Secretary Xu’s life. The old man should at least build me a statue or something. That’s practically the same thing as becoming a hero from a novel.”
Yuan Hong clenched his jaw.
The smile slowly faded from Shaoshang’s face.
Ah.
So it was still bad.
Very bad.
For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the soft snoring of the dog sleeping at the foot of Yuan Hong’s bed.
“Yuan Hong.”
“Get some rest,” the detective said.
“Yuan Hong,” Shaoshang repeated calmly.
“You should be sleeping.”
“Yuan Hong.”
This time, the detective let out a heavy sigh.
“What?” he finally asked, admitting defeat.
Yuan Hong had never been able to win against Shaoshang.
He was simply too weak when faced with that stubborn, sweet nature of his.
“You’re looking at me like I’m a corpse,” Shaoshang said quietly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yuan Hong replied with mild irritation.
But he didn’t deny it.
“Then stop. I’m not dead yet.”
Yuan Hong looked away.
It was a mistake.
He shouldn’t have done that.
Because Shaoshang noticed immediately.
He always noticed.
It was one of the most irritating things about Zhao Shaoshang.
And one of the things Yuan Hong liked most.
“Oh...” Shaoshang sighed softly, his brow furrowing. “So that’s what this is.”
Yuan Hong remained silent.
“You still think it was your fault,” Shaoshang pressed.
The only response he received was silence.
Heavy silence.
The kind that said more than a thousand words ever could.
Shaoshang closed his eyes.
For a moment, Shaoshang listened only to Yuan Hong’s breathing.
It remained unnaturally steady.
Practiced.
Forced.
Shaoshang was tired.
Practically everything hurt.
But what exhausted him even more was looking at Yuan Hong.
Because he knew him well enough by now.
He knew what Yuan Hong looked like when he was angry.
He knew what he looked like when he was focused.
And he knew what he looked like when he blamed himself—when he was consumed by regret because he hadn’t done more, acted faster, prevented something that had never truly been within his power to stop.
And that was exactly how he looked now.
“Yuan Hong,” Shaoshang began again.
This time, however, he pushed himself up on the bed and reached out, placing a hand on the detective’s thigh, forcing him to give him his full, undivided attention.
That was one of the things he loved most about Yuan Hong.
He knew how to listen.
How to focus entirely on him.
“Hm?” Yuan Hong merely grunted in response.
But that was more than enough for Shaoshang.
“Do you remember that case we worked on together? The kidnapped girls in the brothel?” he asked.
Only after Yuan Hong nodded did he continue.
“We were attacked and shot at in that car. Do you think that was your fault too? Yuan Hong, you can’t keep taking responsibility for other people’s actions. My injury? That’s the fault of the Japanese men who attacked us, not yours. Do you understand?”
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it again.
Shaoshang waited for a moment, but no clever counterargument came.
“And when you got shot?”
“It was barely a scratch,” Yuan Hong objected.
“It still counts as being shot,” Shaoshang insisted.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
For the first time that night, Yuan Hong rolled his eyes.
It was a tiny gesture.
Almost imperceptible.
But Shaoshang felt a rush of relief.
Good.
Finally, a reaction that wasn't made entirely of guilt and regret.
“When you got shot,” Shaoshang continued, “should I have decided that I failed to keep you safe?”
Yuan Hong frowned so deeply that storm clouds seemed to gather across his forehead.
“It isn't your job to keep me safe. It was my decision. I was the one who got hurt. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Exactly,” Shaoshang agreed.
Yuan Hong fell silent.
Shaoshang sighed.
“You know what's the most irritating thing about you?” he asked after a moment.
“What?” Yuan Hong replied.
“That you're a very intelligent man.”
“Thank you,” Yuan Hong said.
A faint blush appeared on his cheeks.
“That wasn't a compliment.”
Yuan Hong snorted.
Actually snorted.
Shaoshang felt as though he had just won a battle.
“When it comes to everyone else, you understand that people make their own decisions. You understand risk. You understand responsibility.”
Shaoshang held Yuan Hong's gaze, looking into his dark eyes, into the shadows of his past, into the burden of responsibility that always lingered there.
“But when it comes to me, suddenly you act as if you're responsible for every single thing that happens within a kilometer of me.”
Yuan Hong's hands tightened on his knees.
His fingers closed around Shaoshang's hand.
Not as tightly as the hand gripping his other knee—those fingers would probably leave marks—but still firmly enough that Shaoshang couldn't ignore the pressure.
“You were under my protection, and you got hurt,” Yuan Hong insisted.
“I'm not a puppy.”
“Zhao Shaoshang!”
The words came out sharp and loud, carrying all the feelings Yuan Hong could never put into words.
“I'm not a child either,” Shaoshang added calmly.
“You got stabbed.”
“Even so, I’m capable of making my own decisions,” Shaoshang repeated patiently, almost as if he were speaking to someone whose level of intelligence prevented him from understanding a simple statement.
For a brief moment, something resembling amusement flickered in Yuan Hong’s eyes.
It vanished almost immediately.
But Shaoshang caught it.
And that was enough.
“Listen to me carefully,” Shaoshang insisted.
His voice softened.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“...”
“You couldn’t have predicted everything.”
Yuan Hong remained silent.
“You can’t protect everyone.”
Yuan Hong lowered his gaze.
It was funny.
Many people considered him unshakable.
A man whom nothing could affect.
A man made of iron.
Shaoshang knew better.
He knew that Yuan Hong took every failure harder than anyone else.
He simply never spoke about it.
“Look at me,” Shaoshang demanded.
And Yuan Hong couldn't refuse him.
He never had been able to deny him anything.
“I’m alive,” Shaoshang assured him.
“I know,” Yuan Hong agreed.
“I’m going to live,” Shaoshang pressed gently, his fingers tracing soothing circles against Yuan Hong’s knee.
“I know,” Yuan Hong said again.
“The doctor said it’s a minor wound. In a few weeks, I won’t even remember it.”
“I know,” Yuan Hong confirmed once more.
“Then stop looking like you’re planning my funeral—with full honors and a collection of national treasures to bury with me, making it impossible for future archaeologists to decide whether I was an emperor or a deranged millionaire.”
This time, Yuan Hong laughed.
Actually laughed.
Briefly.
Quietly.
But he laughed.
Shaoshang smiled immediately, his eyes lighting up with the joy he felt only when Yuan Hong genuinely laughed in front of him.
It was such a rare occurrence.
Yet Shaoshang was certain that, out of everyone in Yuan Hong’s life, he had been granted the largest share of it.
“Well, look at that,” Shaoshang said, pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” Yuan Hong replied, turning his head away.
“There you are. My Yuan Hong is back.”
“Shut up,” the detective repeated, his cheeks flushing red.
“That’s incredibly touching,” Shaoshang observed calmly, watching his reaction.
“Zhao Shaoshang.”
“Yes?”
Yuan Hong stared at him in silence for a moment.
Then, very slowly, he lifted a hand.
He brushed aside a stray lock of hair that had fallen across Shaoshang’s forehead.
The gesture was brief.
Natural.
Almost unconscious.
And yet, suddenly, Shaoshang forgot every joke he had prepared.
“Idiot,” Yuan Hong muttered.
His voice was quiet.
Tired.
Filled with relief.
“Next time, run instead of throwing yourself in front of someone else.”
Shaoshang’s heart gave a strange lurch.
Slow.
Heavy.
Pleasant.
He looked at the man sitting beside his bed.
At the man who hadn’t slept all night.
At the man who had spent hours making sure he was still breathing.
And suddenly he realized that perhaps he wasn’t the only one who needed to stop thinking about certain things.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied softly, careful not to make a promise he knew he couldn’t keep.
And Yuan Hong, much to his surprise, didn’t let go of his hand even after he forced him to go back to sleep.
Their fingers remained intertwined between them, even as they finally drifted into the rest they both so desperately needed.
This time, Shaoshang slept on his uninjured side.
And beside him lay Yuan Hong.
When he slept in the arms of his detective, Shaoshang was afraid of nothing.