Chapter 2: Blood Moon
The fever broke on the third night, leaving Ryuzo hollow-eyed and clear-headed beneath a bloated, crimson moon.
Three days of muttered confessions and stifled cries had filled the small camp, a stark contrast to Jin’s silent vigil. Now, as Jin handed him a bowl of weak broth, their fingers didn’t brush. “Can you walk?” Jin asked, his voice low.
“Maybe. Not far.” Ryuzo’s reply was equally quiet, his eyes fixed on the steaming liquid.
The sound came then—the distant, unmistakable jingle of bit and bridle, the snort of a horse on the bad wind. Jin was moving before Ryuzo could set the bowl down. “Scouts,” Jin hissed, dumping dirt on the fire. “Move.”
He hauled Ryuzo up, ignoring the bitten-off gasp of pain, and half-dragged him into a thicket of mountain ferns at the clearing's edge. The space was a cramped pocket of damp earth and shadow. Jin shoved him down and dropped beside him, his body a solid wall between Ryuzo and the open forest.
They were pressed flush, chest to back, Jin’s arm a firm bar across Ryuzo’s chest to still him. The world shrank to the scent of sweat and pine, the frantic drum of two heartbeats, and the slow, approaching crunch of boots on dry leaves.
He could feel every ragged breath Ryuzo drew, the tremor in his frame that had nothing to do with cold. The crimson moon filtered through the ferns, painting Ryuzo's throat in washed-out bloodlight. Jin’s cheek was against Ryuzo’s disheveled hair; the familiar, dusty smell of it sent a jolt through him, treacherous and warm.
The Mongol voices grated closer, arguing over directions. Ryuzo went perfectly still, not even breathing. Jin’s grip tightened instinctively, his hand splayed over Ryuzo’s heart. He felt its wild tattoo against his palm, a frantic bird trapped behind ribs.
Time stretched. A boot landed inches from their hiding place, scattering pebbles. Jin’s other hand found the hilt of his dagger. He counted the heartbeats under his hand, his own face growing hot, a flush of angry heat he was grateful the moon couldn’t reveal.
The scouts moved on, their voices fading into the forest’s whisper. The immediate danger passed, but neither man moved. The space between them had evaporated, replaced by the shocking, solid heat of another body, a proximity that spoke of old intimacies and fresh, open wounds.
Ryuzo’s voice was a threadbare whisper, strained with more than pain. “Jin.”
The single syllable hung in the damp air. Jin didn’t loosen his hold, trapped between the memory of the bridge and the reality of the man in his arms. He was blushing like a boy, and he hated it, and he didn’t let go.
Ryuzo turned his head, the movement achingly slow in the thick silence. Their faces were inches apart, the blood moon casting their features in stark relief against the ferns. Jin could see the dark hollows under Ryuzo’s eyes, the desperate search in his gaze.
For a suspended moment, the world vanished. There was only the shared, ragged warmth of their breath mixing in the cool air, the old, magnetic pull that lived beneath the anger and the ash. Ryuzo’s eyes flicked to Jin’s mouth.
Jin’s own breath hitched.
Before their lips could touch, Jin was standing, the spell shattered by the sharp, mental image of a rain-slicked bridge and a drawn sword. The cold night air rushed between them, a brutal replacement for shared heat. “They’re gone,” Jin said, his voice grating.
He didn’t offer a hand. He simply turned and walked to where his horse stood patient and dark against the trees. “We can’t stay here.” After a beat, Ryuzo pushed himself up, wincing, and stumbled forward. Jin hauled him up onto the saddle with a single, efficient pull, then swung up behind him.
He gathered the reins, his arms caging Ryuzo in. They began to move, the horse picking a slow path through the shadowed pines. Jin stared rigidly ahead, feeling every shift of Ryuzo’s body against his own.