Chapter 64 - Mao mao the man

Chapter 64: Chapter 64 - Mao mao the man

Jua Gu looked down at his hand again.

He had been so occupied with making it move that he hadn’t properly noticed the differences. His fingers were longer than he remembered, the joints more defined. It was still a slender hand, weakened by years of disuse, but it no longer belonged to the teenager who had stood outside the bookshop.

Almost twenty years.

He lifted it with difficulty and touched his cheek. His elbow dragged against the sheet, and his wrist trembled by the time his fingertips reached his face. He felt along his cheek and down toward his jaw.

The softness he remembered was gone.

He turned toward the nurse.

"C-can I have a mirror, please?"

"Of course."

She searched through the drawer beside his bed before bringing out a small mirror.

"Here. You still look very handsome."

Her smile was gentle enough that he couldn’t tell whether she meant it or was preparing him for something unpleasant.

Jua accepted the mirror, but his grip wasn’t steady. The nurse helped position it, propping his arm against the pillow.

He stared at his reflection.

His own greenish eyes looked back at him. The colour seemed deeper than he remembered. His cheeks had lost their childish fullness, making his jaw more distinct, and his nose looked a little sharper. His lips were pale, and there was an exhausted look about him that sleep clearly hadn’t done much to improve.

Still, he looked young.

If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed he was around twenty.

Jua tilted the mirror slightly, studying himself from another angle.

This body was almost thirty-eight.

He did the calculation again.

It remained thirty-eight.

Fuck. I’m an old guy now.

His body had somehow become older than his soul.

A faint chuckle escaped him.

The nurse glanced over, but Jua shook his head. He had been worrying about entrance exams what felt like yesterday. Now some of the students could reasonably mistake him for somebody’s father.

His amusement slowly faded.

Mao Mao would be grown too.

He knew that already. The being in Soul Space had told him what the boy had done, and the nurse had confirmed how long he had been unconscious. Yet seeing the years on his own face made it harder to imagine Mao Mao as anything other than the child he remembered.

He tried to picture him older.

He couldn’t.

Every attempt brought back the little boy who leaned against him while playing cards, his head fitting comfortably beneath Jua’s hand.

What did he look like now?

Would he even want to be called Mao Mao anymore?

Jua lowered the mirror. The nurse took it from his weakening fingers and placed it on the bedside table.

"Take your time," she said softly.

Before he could ask whether someone had been contacted, hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor.

The door swung open.

A man stood in the entrance, one hand still gripping the handle.

He wore a black trench coat left open over the clothes beneath it. His hair was dishevelled, strands falling across his forehead, and he was breathing hard as though he had rushed here without stopping.

His eyes found the bed immediately.

Jua stared at him.

For a moment, he couldn’t fit the man standing in the doorway together with the child in his memories.

He was tall, his shoulders broad beneath the coat. There was nothing childish about his face anymore. His features had sharpened, and the tense set of his mouth gave him a severity Jua had never seen on the little boy who used to cling to his shirt.

Then Jua looked into his eyes.

The green-grey he remembered had become a colder steel grey, but the man was staring at him with such naked, frantic attention that Jua’s throat tightened.

Mao Mao.

The name came to him with complete certainty.

The man’s gaze moved over his face before dropping to the hand resting on the blanket. It was as though he needed to see every part of Jua for himself before he could believe he was truly awake.

Jua tried to move his fingers.

The small movement caught his attention immediately.

Something changed in Mao Mao’s face. The hard line of his mouth faltered, and his eyes softened so suddenly that Jua could see the child in him again.

It hurt more than he expected.

He had missed all of it.

The growing, the awkward years, whatever had happened to turn that little boy into this rigid man. Jua had left a child crying beside him and opened his eyes to someone who looked afraid to come any closer.

Jua parted his lips, but no sound came out.

Tears gathered in Mao Mao’s eyes.

"Jua Ge," he whispered hoarsely.

Mao Mao crossed the room quickly and stopped beside the bed. He reached for him, and for an instant Jua remembered the child who used to throw himself against his side without worrying about where his elbows landed.

But the arms that went around him were careful.

One slipped behind his shoulders while the other rested lightly across his back, drawing him forward just enough to hold him. Mao Mao bent over the bed rather than making Jua lift himself, his cheek coming to rest against his hair.

Jua wanted to put his hand on his back, but his fingers barely moved before the smell reached him.

Smoke clung to Mao Mao’s coat. It was harsh against Jua’s already dry throat. He turned his face aside, but a cough escaped him.

Mao Mao pulled away immediately.

"Sorry."

He looked alarmed. The nurse gestured toward the cup on the bedside table, and Mao Mao picked it up at once, helping Jua settle against the pillow.

"Here. Slowly."

He held out a small piece of ice. Jua accepted it, closing his eyes briefly as the cold eased his throat. Mao Mao waited until he swallowed before offering another.

"How do you feel, Jua Ge?"

Jua didn’t know how to answer that.

Weak. Confused. His limbs felt useless, his head was heavy, and he had somehow lost almost twenty years between one conversation and the next.

"My throat," he managed.

Mao Mao nodded.

"Don’t force yourself to talk."

His voice had changed completely. It was deeper now, with a roughness Jua couldn’t remember, though the way he said Jua Ge was familiar enough to make his chest ache.

Mao Mao sat beside the bed, keeping himself angled toward Jua as though unwilling to look away even for a second.

Then he noticed the hair caught beneath Jua’s shoulder.

His hand moved toward it, hesitated briefly, then carefully freed the strands.

Jua looked down.

His hair reached his shoulders.

He hadn’t noticed while examining his face. Mao Mao gently drew it clear of his collar and smoothed it over the pillow.

There was something painfully familiar about being fussed over like this, except their places had completely changed. Jua used to be the one straightening Mao Mao’s clothes and pushing hair away from his forehead. Now he lay helpless while a grown man carefully worked a knot loose near his shoulder.

Jua watched him.

Up close, he could see faint shadows beneath Mao Mao’s eyes. His lips were pressed together, and every few seconds his gaze returned to Jua’s face, checking that he wasn’t hurting him.

The name slipped out before Jua could stop himself.

"Mao Mao."

The busy hands froze.

Mao Mao’s fingers remained curled around a few strands of his hair as his eyes lifted.

Then he smiled.

The change was immediate. The tension around his mouth disappeared, and the warmth in his eyes was so familiar that Jua found himself smiling back.

"Yes, Jua Ge."

Jua studied him again, searching for the child he remembered. Now that Mao Mao was smiling, he could see him. In the shape of his eyes, the curve of his lips, and the way his attention remained completely fixed on Jua.

"You’ve grown."

It was a foolish thing to say after twenty years, but Jua needed to say it. Some stubborn part of his mind still expected small fingers to catch his sleeve.

Mao Mao nodded.

His smile trembled slightly before he steadied it.

He let Jua’s hair slip from his fingers and reached for his face instead. His palm settled gently against Jua’s cheek, warm and broad, his thumb resting beneath his eye.

Jua leaned into it without meaning to.

He was tired, and Mao Mao’s hand supported him so naturally that he simply let himself rest there.

"Yes," Mao Mao whispered. "I have."

His thumb moved softly over Jua’s cheek.

Jua looked at the hand cradling his face and remembered how small it had once been in his own.

He tried to lift his hand toward Mao Mao’s wrist.

Mao Mao noticed immediately. He caught Jua’s hand before the effort became too much and brought it up himself, pressing it gently against his sleeve.

Jua could feel his pulse beneath his fingertips.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

There was so much Jua needed to ask. What had happened during all those years? What had Mao Mao done after he disappeared? How had that small, stubborn child become the man sitting beside him now?

But those questions could wait.

Mao Mao’s eyes were filling with tears again, and Jua couldn’t bear to spend their first moments together digging through twenty years of pain.

Instead, he rubbed his thumb weakly against Mao Mao’s wrist.

Mao Mao’s expression crumpled for just a second.

Then he lowered his head and pressed his cheek into Jua’s waiting palm.