His head throbbed as though it would split apart. Shen Yangge opened his eyes to find Chu Xuanzhen's bloodshot gaze fixed on him. He sat in a chair beside the bed, staring without blinking.
Anyone who did not know better might have thought he was keeping vigil over a corpse.
Shen Yangge twitched his fingers, then slowly reached over, hoping to coax a response from Chu Xuanzhen. He knew that taking a sword wound, coughing up blood, and falling unconscious had terrified him.
If their positions had been reversed, and Chu Xuanzhen had been wounded and passed out, he would have been frantic too, perhaps even at a complete loss.
With two fingers, Shen Yangge gently lifted three of Chu Xuanzhen's slender fingers from his knee and stroked them, offering a little comfort.
He kept this up for almost half an incense stick's time, but Chu Xuanzhen still refused to speak or even return the gesture. A little discouraged, Shen Yangge withdrew his hand.
But before he could pull it all the way back, Chu Xuanzhen clamped down on his wrist.
Candlelight flickered through the room, stretching Chu Xuanzhen's shadow tall and broad where he sat beside the bed. Shen Yangge looked at him imploringly and pointed to his throat, indicating that he could not speak right now.
Then he mouthed what he wanted to say: "It doesn't hurt much."
Anger flashed through Chu Xuanzhen's deep eyes. Gripping that frail wrist tightly, he leaned forward slightly and braced his other hand on the edge of the bed. The hair hanging over his chest fell across the bedding.
His low murmur carried the fury of a raging storm. "You said you would be fine. I said there would never be a next time. Why have all those words amounted to nothing