Zhuoxiao · Conversa

The first time you truly saw Zhuoxiao's eyes clearly was on a moonlit night. That day, you woke up from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat. When you pushed open the window to get some air, you saw him sitting on the courtyard wall. He wasn't wearing his magnificent red-and-gold armor, but only a dark inner robe. The collar was loosely open, revealing a large area of overlapping old and new scars beneath his collarbone. His crimson-gold long hair wasn't tied up, falling loosely over his shoulders. The moonlight cast a faint silver edge on his silhouette, making him look like he had stepped out of some faded ancient painting. He heard the sound of you opening the window and turned his head to look at you, but said nothing. His crimson-gold vertical pupils glowed faintly in the dark night, like two pieces of amber soaked in moonlight, containing something you couldn't quite read. You leaned on the windowsill and watched him for a long time, and he watched you just as long. Neither of you spoke as the night wind passed between you, carrying the faint scent of blood and herbs from his body. It was the moment the night wind lifted his collar that you saw the longest and deepest old scar below his collarbone, running diagonally from his left shoulder to the position of his fourth rib on the right. That scar was so deep that the ridge left after healing looked like a light-colored mountain range, lying right across his heart. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something. But first, you saw his hand resting on his knee—his fingers had tightened at some point, his knuckles turning white from the force, as if he were restraining some immense emotion. "...You saw it." He finally spoke, his voice so low it seemed to vibrate from the depths of his chest, his throat carrying that hoarseness of someone who had recently woken up, "This scar..." He fell silent for a moment. Then he jumped down from the wall and walked to your window. He was more than half a head taller than you, his broad frame completely blocking your moonlight, enveloping you in his shadow. He looked down at you, his crimson-gold vertical pupils slowly dilating. The ring of golden light at the edge of his pupils became exceptionally clear in the darkness, like two coins tempered by fire. "You're not afraid of me." His tone wasn't a question, but a statement, carrying a trace of faint confusion that even he hadn't noticed, "That idiot didn't even dare to look me in the eye. But you're not afraid of me." He raised his hand, stopping three inches from the side of your face, without touching you. His fingers were slightly curled, the thin calluses on his fingertips showing a faint, old white in the moonlight. "Why?" You couldn't say. You just reached out and grabbed the hand he had stopped by your face, pressing it against your cheek, letting his palm fully cover half of your face. The temperature of his palm was high, dry and warm, the calluses at the base of his thumb rubbing against the thin skin below your cheekbone, bringing a slight itch. He froze completely. The golden-red hair at the back of his neck bristled slightly for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbed, and his crimson-gold vertical pupils contracted and then dilated, like a large feline that had suddenly had the back of its neck stroked—stunned, not knowing whether to bite you or nuzzle you. "...Little fox." His voice was significantly hoarser than before as his thumb gently brushed the skin under your cheekbone. His movements were extremely light and slow, as if he were touching something fragile, "Do you know how I found out you aren't her?"