MOTOC - Chapter 87 - Or perhaps go to Huaiyu Pavilion to see Zhao Chu.
Fang Linyuan himself could sense how his gaze had gone stiff—rigid and direct—yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Zhao Chu’s face.
He tried to look elsewhere, but his eyes refused to budge. For a moment, he was like a thief caught red-handed, unable to find a place to hide.
…It must be the cold, Fang Linyuan thought.
With that thought, he moved his lips, wanting to say something to excuse the blatant way he’d been staring. But just as he tried to speak, a couple of soft coughs escaped from his throat.
This time, it really was from the cold.
He had spent a long time outside, running back and forth in the wind and snow, breaking a sweat that quickly dried in the chill. The resulting irritation in his throat made him cough twice.
At that, Zhao Chu—face masked—immediately furrowed his brows.
In the next instant, a cool hand pressed gently against Fang Linyuan’s forehead.
“I’m not running a fever,” Fang Linyuan said quickly. “What kind of pampered thing catches a cold just from some wind?”
Zhao Chu’s palm lingered briefly on his forehead, and only after confirming there was nothing unusual did he pull his hand away.
But the two of them were so close that, as Zhao Chu withdrew, his cool fingertips happened to brush past the root of Fang Linyuan’s ear.
Fang Linyuan shivered involuntarily, his neck shrinking instinctively.
…They were too close.
Zhao Chu’s hand had moved away, but his face remained near. Just as the tingling warmth lingering at Fang Linyuan’s ear began to fade, Zhao Chu’s voice sounded again—his breath low and steady, vibrating close by. It was like pouring hot oil into a roaring fire, intensifying Fang Linyuan’s discomfort to the point of agony.
“You still shouldn’t have emptied the whole carriage,” Zhao Chu said. “If I hadn’t been here, how would you have made it through the night?”
If Zhao Chu hadn’t been here…
Fang Linyuan awkwardly and clumsily shifted his arms and legs, but all he encountered around him was a sea of soft, thick furs.
Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up feeling like he was being cooked alive in boiling oil.
Fang Linyuan wriggled a bit more, not answering the question. Instead, he cautiously looked up at Zhao Chu and said, “…You can let go of me now.”
Zhao Chu froze for a moment.
The usually composed fox-like man seemed to realize only just then what he’d done. He glanced down and saw his own arms still wrapped firmly around the other man. His gaze paused slightly.
After a brief silence, his face showed little expression, but he promptly released Fang Linyuan and moved back quickly. “…Sorry.”
Outside, the cold wind howled.
What Fang Linyuan didn’t know was that Zhao Chu’s current state of mind wasn’t any calmer than the storm outside. Like a painted ghost inadvertently exposing its tail and fangs before the scholar, his heart pounded, afraid that Fang Linyuan would be frightened, disgusted, or driven away.
(NT: ‘Painted ghost’ comes from the classic story ‘Painted Skin’ (画皮) in ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio’ (聊斋志异) by Pu Songling. It refers to something deceptive—appearing beautiful or benign on the outside, but hiding something monstrous beneath.)
He recoiled quickly, and the hand hidden in his sleeve clenched. The slight bulging of veins betrayed just how flustered and disoriented he truly was.
Fang Linyuan didn’t see any of this. All he noticed was that the strong warmth wrapping around him had suddenly vanished, leaving only the cold to seep in again.
It was strange—like some instinctual part of him craved that embrace.
He wrapped the fur blanket around himself, trying to mask the awkwardness, and asked Zhao Chu quietly, “Are you cold?”
Zhao Chu shook his head.
The carriage was small, and now packed with extra bedding and supplies. The space felt even more cramped.
Even though the two of them were clearly trying to keep their distance, their shoulders and arms still brushed together. Within a few breaths, their warmth and breath intertwined.
Amid the thunder of his own heartbeat, Fang Linyuan finally found something to say.
“It’s fine that I gave the carriage supplies to the soldiers,” he said, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “I’ve lived through worse at the border. I know how to handle weather like this.”
Zhao Chu turned his head slightly to glance at him.
“Is that so?” he asked after a moment.
The tension between them finally started to ease, and Fang Linyuan found himself speaking more freely.
“Of course! The winters at the Tiger Pass are brutal. A single night’s snowfall can block the tent doors. We’d sleep in full armor, and still get up the next morning to dig the snow out from around the camp.”
As Fang Linyuan spoke of those days, it was as if starlight flickered in his eyes. Zhao Chu watched him speak, and the corners of his lips gradually lifted in a smile.
“You probably had fevers without even realizing it, and just pushed through on your own,” Zhao Chu said softly with a faint chuckle as he saw Fang Linyuan become increasingly animated in his storytelling.
“How could that be possible!” Fang Linyuan blurted out.
But at once, he remembered the time in the post station when he’d caught a chill from the rain and had a low-grade fever. His expression grew faintly guilty.
“For someone this young, having a few fevers isn’t a big deal,” he muttered awkwardly.
“I didn’t mean it as a reproach,” Zhao Chu’s voice came from beside him.
Fang Linyuan turned his head and saw Zhao Chu looking at him.
“I meant,” Zhao Chu continued, “that you’re remarkable.”
“…What?” Fang Linyuan was slightly taken aback.
Zhao Chu gazed at him as the fierce wind and snow pounded the carriage windows outside, yet his voice was soft and warm—like osmanthus petals falling on an autumn night: pure, gentle, and quiet.
“You get sick because you’re made of flesh and blood—a mortal body. That’s natural,” he said.
“But you stood guard through those freezing, snowy nights and reclaimed one city after another from the barbarians. That’s you, with your mortal frame, doing something extraordinary.”
Fang Linyuan watched as Zhao Chu once again reached out his hand.
He seemed to love touching his hair, though Fang Linyuan had no idea what was so interesting about it.
Zhao Chu’s hand landed gently atop his head. It was the kind of gesture that rested delicately on the edge of intimacy—neither too far nor too close, a quiet, soft stirring that left ripples behind without a sound.
Fang Linyuan seemed a little addicted to it, and so didn’t move away.
Then he heard Zhao Chu speak again.
“That’s why I say, you’re an amazing person,” he said. “But with me here, you don’t have to endure that kind of cold anymore.”
*
That night, Fang Linyuan ended up speaking quite a bit with Zhao Chu.
Once he started talking about Tiger Pass, it was as if he couldn’t stop. Fortunately, Zhao Chu was a very patient listener. So from the snowstorms of Tiger Pass to his childhood companions, to the perilous battles he’d survived, he told Zhao Chu everything.
Outside, the wind howled fiercely, so loud it made the carriage tremble. As it swept through the woods and into the joints of the carriage, the sound was sharp as wolves howling.
On a snowy night this dangerous, Fang Linyuan knew he should have been on high alert.
But sitting next to Zhao Chu, he only grew sleepier and sleepier.
Until at some point—he wasn’t sure when—he drifted off right at Zhao Chu’s side.
He didn’t even know that, as he fell asleep, he had slumped against Zhao Chu’s shoulder.
Zhao Chu, at the time, was still awake.
He noticed the voice beside him slowing, growing quieter and softer, until eventually it faded into silence.
And then, his shoulder felt a subtle but growing weight. Followed by the steady sound of Fang Linyuan’s breathing, gently brushing against his hair.
Zhao Chu tilted his head slightly, lowered his gaze, and looked at him.
From that angle, he could clearly see Fang Linyuan’s eyelashes, dark as crow feathers.
That calm, peaceful expression gave Zhao Chu a sudden illusion—as if Fang Linyuan were leaning on him, relying on him the way one would lean against a mountain to block the cold wind on a winter night.
Could he really be someone who made Fang Linyuan feel safe?
Zhao Chu didn’t know where the confidence came from—perhaps it was just because Fang Linyuan always carried himself so openly and honorably, as if Zhao Chu were basking in the warmth of that light.
At least for now, he was relying on him.
Zhao Chu looked at Fang Linyuan, and suddenly felt an irresistible urge to move closer. He tilted his head again, this time resting his cheek gently against the top of Fang Linyuan’s head, brushing softly against his hair.
And it was just then that Fang Linyuan moved slightly.
Zhao Chu’s entire body went rigid.
He had harbored ill intentions—guilty like a thief—so his first instinct was to worry that Fang Linyuan had been awakened by him, and might open his eyes to see this ridiculous, helplessly attracted, and vaguely shameful look on his face.
But the Fang Linyuan leaning on his shoulder merely shifted slightly, then went on to rest most of his body in Zhao Chu’s arms.
His face sank into the soft furs, and his shoulder brushed gently against the edge of Zhao Chu’s wound. There was a hint of pain, but more than that, a spreading numbness—as if it had robbed him of control over his own body.
Then he heard Fang Linyuan mutter in his sleep, half-awake, half-dreaming. “Zhao Chu…”
The voice was light, scattered by the wind and snow outside, yet Zhao Chu still heard it clearly.
He responded with a barely audible “Mm,” wanting to answer him but afraid to wake him.
“I’m here,” he said softly.
Fang Linyuan didn’t reply, just buried his face even deeper into his shoulder.
“Zhao Chu…” As he nuzzled and shifted slightly, he called his name again.
This time, even Zhao Chu’s heartbeat went numb.
It was as if all his senses were responding—clamoring—timid yet wild, a tingling tenderness that melted his very bones, awakened his limbs, and stirred his soul to cry out with his body.
He relied on him, didn’t he? In this vulnerable and unguarded state between sleep and wakefulness, he was calling his name.
To Zhao Chu, that stirred his heart more than being addressed as “husband” or “my lord.”
No—that cold and formal title, he needed that too.
The two weren’t in conflict.
Because it was precisely as his wife that he could rightfully lean on him like this, embrace him like this. On a winter night howling with wind and snow, the one by Fang Linyuan’s side could only be him.
That night, the greedy thief finally got the treasure he had long dreamed of.
He lowered his head slightly, letting his cheek rest softly against the top of Fang Linyuan’s head, and just like that, embraced and nestled his treasure all through the night.
*
By morning, the wind and snow had stopped. The next few days were bright and clear. Though snow still blanketed the roads, their journey continued without hindrance.
Three days later, they arrived in the capital.
Young Master Zhu, being a merchant, had his own affairs to attend to and thus parted ways with Fang Linyuan there. Fang Linyuan, meanwhile, rode straight into the Imperial City to report back to the Emperor.
He kept in mind his decision to avoid drawing attention.
So his report was kept brief—he recounted only the investigation and the arrests, everything else he claimed not to know, attributing it all to Lord Heng.
He and Heng Feizhang were complete strangers, and Emperor Hongyou didn’t seem suspicious.
Seeing how he showed the right amount of weariness, Emperor Hongyou responded with benevolence. He lifted his hand, telling him to go back and rest, saying he would summon him again if anything came up.
Fang Linyuan bowed and accepted the order.
Even though it was all speculation, as he turned to leave the palace, his peripheral vision couldn’t help but sweep across the high platform where the monarch sat.
Calm, kind, and generous, rarely showing anger.
Could it truly be His Majesty? Treating the lives of officials and commoners as a game, wearing benevolence and leniency as a disguise?
He didn’t want to doubt him—but he couldn’t help feeling wary.
He said nothing and kept his expression composed, maintaining the tired facade as he exited the palace.
Looking up at the capital, its vast avenues and towering buildings dividing the sky into neat squares of blue, he suddenly felt truly exhausted.
He wanted to go home and get a proper rest… or perhaps go to Huaiyu Pavilion, to see Zhao Chu.
All of a sudden, Fang Linyuan felt a strong urge to return.
He told himself it was only natural to miss home after being away for so long. But when he returned to the residence, the first place he stopped wasn’t Fuguang Hall—it was the gate of Huaiyu Pavilion.
The capital was easing into winter. The golden leaves on the branches had mostly fallen, and the osmanthus trees in front of the pavilion had nearly shed their blossoms. Only a few scattered golden flowers remained on the twigs—a kind of desolate beauty, as if all its former splendor had faded.
“Go inform Her Highness that I’ve returned,” Fang Linyuan told the maid at the door.
But the maid did not move. She hesitated slightly, looking at him with unease.
“My lord… Her Highness’s smallpox hasn’t fully healed yet. I’m afraid she can’t receive visitors for now.”
--
Author's Note:
Fang Linyuan: On the matter of both me and my wife being home, yet still having to endure a long-distance relationship for a few days…
Translator : DarNan
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