He was back…but from where?
Everything was a messy blur as the hours ticked by mercilessly.
The day passed in fragments—cool cloths soaked and wrung out, fevered whispers barely intelligible, and the distant ticking of an old wall clock that marked every anxious minute. Dong Yingming never left Yao Ziyang's side, not even to eat. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his large hand wrapped gently around the smaller one lying limp on the fresh new green sheets. The younger man would stir, mumble something, then drift again into a fitful fever-dream.
By night, Dong Yingming could feel his own body starting to shut down from exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the weight in his chest.
He had failed.
Not because he hadn't cared — but maybe, because he'd cared too much. Had wanted too much. And in wanting, in giving in to his need to be close to the other man, he'd put fragility second to desire.
When Zhang Wei returned and quietly informed him the fever was beginning to lower — that Yao Ziyang was still weak, but out of immediate danger — Dong Yingming didn't feel relief. He felt shame. A tight, ugly knot of it.
He waited until the doctor left, then brushed his thumb over his lover's cool lips one more time. However, Yao Ziyang still showed no signs of waking up.
"I need to make this right."
Days slipped into days without making much noise.
Time didn't move in hours, not here. It moved in the piles of food trays stacked on the nightstand. In the rising and falling of fever dreams. In the sound of Dong Yingming's chair creaking as he shifted through long, sleepless nights.
Three days passed like that — slow, heavy, and unbearable. The kind of days that were soaked in waiting, in watching, in not knowing what will happen next and fearing the uncontrollable situation becoming worse.
On the third night, Dong Yingming sat beside him and laced their fingers together. Yao Ziyang's hand was limp in his palm, the way a flower stem folds under the weight of its own bloom.
"Talk to me…"
Dong Yingming murmured.
"Just once. So I know you're still in there."
There was no answer.
And so the hours bled again.
He barely slept. When he did, it was in the chair beside the bed, one hand always resting close enough to feel the rise and fall of the boy's chest. It was all he could hold onto. Proof that he hadn't lost him yet.
Then, at around 1 am, a sound.
A stir.
The bedsheets shifted. Cloth rustled.
Dong Yingming snapped upright.
Yao Ziyang's eyes fluttered, lashes twitching. His lips parted—dry, cracked—but they moved.
"...Brother Dong?"
It was a whisper. A ghost of a sound.
But it was him.
"Ssh. Rest."
"...Okay…"
Yao Ziyang sighed and fell back asleep without protest. Dong Yingming stood up, body stiff and aching from hours in the hard chair, and crossed the room to the coat hanger where he placed his coat. He gazed back at the sleeping figure on their bed — flushed, tangled in sheets, his chest rising with gentle, fragile effort.
"I pushed you too far again."
He murmured under his breath.
"Even when I told myself I wouldn't."
His voice was steady, but inside, he was crumbling.
So he made the decision.
He wouldn't sleep in this cell again — not until his man had fully recovered. He couldn't be here, watching his own selfishness in the form of flushed cheeks and labored breath.
Instead, he would move into the back room he'd once used for meetings — cold, sparse, and always smelling faintly of old smoke and ink. A desk, a couch, and enough silence to punish himself with.
As he stepped out of the cell, his guards on duty, Chen Bo and Chang Xiao, didn't ask questions when he ordered the transfer of a cot and some clothes. He told them he needed space to "work." But they could see it in his face — that it wasn't for business. It was penance. He appointed Wei Jiang and Chen Bo to be personal guards to Yao Ziyang effective immediately.
Since Chen Bo was already present, he nodded and entered the cell. Dong Yingming made it explicitly clear his man must never be left alone unless changing or in the bathroom. They must give a full detailed report of his man's daily activities at the end of every day. And other's hands must never touch him, including their's, unless it's to save his life. With that, Dong Yingming gave one last longing look at the small lump in their bed before turning and walking down the corridor.
The rest of the night, in the quiet of his makeshift study, he stared at the wall instead of sleeping. His thoughts never left his Baby Bird. Every shift of fabric, every echo in the corridor, made him want to rush back and check.
But he didn't. Not yet.
Because for once, protecting him meant staying away.
…
The sun poured through the cracked opened window like molten gold, flooding the cell in warm, honey-colored light. Sunlight dust floated lazily in the air, each mote catching the sun's touch as it drifted — slow, aimless, unbothered.
The sky outside was painfully blue. Not a single cloud. Not even a hint of rain to blur the edges of the day. It was the kind of morning meant for freedom — for walking barefoot in grass, hand in hand with the one person who holds your heart, for turning your face to the sun and closing your eyes. A perfect day for a picnic date.
But in a certain luxurious prison cell, it only made everything feel worse.
The brightness pressed against the shadows like a cruel joke. The warmth on the skin felt too soft, too sweet — like someone offering kindness only to strip it away the next moment.
It was a beautiful morning. And somehow, that made it all the more lonely.
Yao Ziyang awoke slowly, as though rising from the depths of water that had been holding him down for days. His body felt heavy, every limb wrapped in a soft, unfamiliar weight. The sheets beneath him were warm, and the air had a gentle chill to it that raised goosebumps along his arms.
His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks. Blurred light from the window crept across the cell floor.
He stirred, his throat dry, lips cracked. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, and his skin still felt warm—but not like before. The fever had broken. He was sure of it this time.
But the moment his mind began to clear, another feeling settled in: emptiness.
He shifted slightly and scanned the room. The basin nearby had a wet cloth draped over its side. A cup of water sat untouched on the small table. But the chair next to the bed—where someone had clearly been keeping vigil—was empty.
Dong Yingming wasn't there.
Yao Ziyang blinked in slow confusion. His fingers reached weakly toward the rumpled bedsheets where the man had once sat, and his brows knit together.
"Brother Dong…?"
His voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper.
No answer.
He looked around again, this time with more intent. The side where Dong Yingming usually slept was now cold and untouched.
Yao Ziyang lay still for a moment, eyes widened, heart drumming faintly beneath his ribs.
At first, waking up had felt like a relief — the fever haze lifted, the world sharp again. But that relief evaporated the moment he realized he was alone.
Completely alone.
His eyes darted to the corners of the cell. No shadow in the chair. No coat on the hook. No boots by the bed. No familiar sound of clothes or bedsheets rustling. The air felt wrong without it — colder, emptier. Exposed.
He sat up too quickly, swaying as dizziness pulsed through his skull. His body protested, still weak, but his panic shoved past it. He gripped the edge of the bed, his breathing growing uneven.
"Brother Dong?"
He called out, voice raw and cracking.
Nothing.
"Dong Yingming!"
He tried again, louder now — not a call, but a plea. His throat burned, and his eyes stung without warning.
In this place — this prison of cold floors and colder rules — Dong Yingming had been more than just a comfort. More than just protection. He'd been real. Without Dong Yingming, that security felt like it was crumbling. He was crumbling.
But it wasn't just fear.
It was the aching of missing him. The man who had held him so gently in the dark. Who had kissed his temple and whispered like he cared. The man who made Yao Ziyang feel, for once, like he wasn't just a thing passed around by stronger men.
And now he was gone.
A sob escaped before he could stop it — small, broken. He turned towards the door, hoping with all his heart that it would open, revealing the man he so dearly missed. His hands trembled as they reached to cover his face.
A flicker of hurt passed through him—sharp, and deep. The kind of ache that settled somewhere behind the ribs.
'Did I do something wrong?'
He thought.
'Did he regret…that night?'
He pulled the blanket closer, suddenly feeling colder. Not from fever, but from the absence of the man who had held him so tightly just nights ago—whose breath had been against his skin, whose voice had murmured comfort and praise like it mattered.
'Why would you leave me?'
Was it boredom? Regret? Had Dong Yingming decided he wasn't worth it anymore?
Did their closeness mean nothing?
He remembered Dong Yingming's heartbeat under his cheek. The way he'd said, "You matter too much." Had it all just been something he said in the moment — words that meant little in daylight?
More tears slipped past his lashes. He felt sick again — not from illness, but from the rising, choking sense of being left behind. Forgotten.
And yet, even in his panic, one truth stayed sharp in his chest:
He loved him.
Not just for his strength. Not just because he'd protected him. Not just because he was his favorite character in some book he picked up. But because in his arms, for a little while, the world had felt safe. He had felt wanted. He had felt alive.
And now, with that safety gone, the ache of abandonment was unbearable.
He forced himself to his feet, legs shaking beneath him, and stumbled toward the door of the cell. His fingers grabbing hold of the handle that shouldn't have been there, knuckles whitening, his breath fogging the steel.
"Where did you go…?"
He whispered, reddened eyes searched the room one last time.
Suddenly the door creaked open gently, pushing his back slightly. However, with him weakened body, his wobbly legs ultimately buckled and he fell to the ground with a thud.
It wasn't Dong Yingming who stood at the doorway.
It was the quieter of the two guards assigned to Yao Ziyang, Wei Jiang who he made eye contact with. He paused when he saw Yao Ziyang awake, then offered a small nod and hand. Yao Ziyang, in a daze, takes the hand and is gently pulled to his unstable feet.
"You're awake."
Wei Jiang said quietly.
"Dr. Zhang will be back soon."
Yao Ziyang tried to walk past the guard, then paused when he was blocked.
"Where is he?"
He asked, voice still hoarse.
Wei Jiang hesitated, then scratched the back of his neck.
"Boss Dong? He's…been sleeping in the back records room the last few nights. Said he needed space to work... You also needed spaced to heal."
Yao Ziyang's gaze dropped. He silently wiped away his tears.
So he hadn't left completely. He was still close—but distant. Watching from elsewhere. Waiting.
Yao Ziyang's fingers curled around the hem of his red shirt, voice softer now.
"Can you… can you tell him I'm awake?"
Wei Jiang nodded again, expression unreadable.
"I'll let him know."
Wei Jiang took notice of the youth's trembling form. His eyes were red. Cheeks damp. Skin pale with the fading fever. He shouldn't be out of bed let alone standing around without a robe or slippers on. Will he be 'taught a lesson' for allowing this to happen when he'd just changed shifts with Chen Bo?
"Why are you up?"
Wei Jiang asked softly, stepping closer. His voice was deep, measured—never cold, but calm, like a still surface of water.
Yao Ziyang didn't answer right away. His hands gripped his clothes harder, knuckles pale, and his voice came out strained.
"He wasn't here…"
Wei Jiang exhaled slowly through his nose. He knew who he was.
"He'll be back. Do you need anything else?"
Wei Jiang ask politely.
"Tell me. I'll take care of it."
That seemed to make Yao Ziyang's lip quiver more. His head dropped, shoulders curling in tighter as fresh tears slid down his face.
"I didn't mean to get sick. I just wanted to be close…"
Wei Jiang said nothing for a moment. Then he leaned forward towards the young man, his large hand resting on Yao Ziyang's tender head—lightly stroking it in an attempt to soothe him.
"You need to lie down. Your body hasn't finished recovering."
"I'm fine—Ah!"
Yao Ziyang began, but the faint tremble in his legs betrayed him.
Wei Jiang stopped without a word and gently reached under Yao Ziyang's arm, supporting him with the ease of someone used to bearing weight.
"No lies right now…"
He said, almost too quietly to hear.
"Just rest."
Yao Ziyang let himself lean in, still crying softly, though the tears came slower now—half from exhaustion, half from relief. Wei Jiang helped him lie back down, lifting his legs onto the bed with a careful precision that spoke of unspoken experience. He tucked the blankets around the boy's narrow shoulders and adjusted the pillow behind his head.
Yao Ziyang's fingers clutched at the guard's sleeve for a moment before slipping away, limp with fatigue.
Wei Jiang stood there a moment longer, looking down at him—not with judgment, but with something gentler, more complicated. He didn't speak, didn't lecture. He only reached forward once, brushed a strand of hair from Yao Ziyang's damp forehead, and turned to leave.
As he reached the doorway, Yao Ziyang murmured behind him, barely audible.
"Tell him I'm sorry."
Wei Jiang paused.
"...I'll get you some food."
Then he closed the door behind him. As the door shut behind him, Yao Ziyang stared at the empty chair one more time and whispered into the silence, more to himself than to anyone else:
"I wanted you here."