Song Nanqing rested his chin on one hand, took a sip of his fruit juice, and glanced over, saying, “I certainly did not ask him to follow us.”
In the noisy lobby, their corner was a quiet oasis. Song Nanqing disliked eating in private rooms; he preferred observing the myriad states of life outside. Yet, to observe others was to be observed oneself.
Shen Heng said flatly, “Following someone without the master’s command, is he a good dog?”
Song Nanqing picked up a chopstick of stir-fried seasonal vegetables, thinking to himself that being a thorn in Shen Heng’s side meant the man was indeed a good dog. Outwardly, however, he remained calm. He poured a cup of tea for Shen Heng and said, “Teacher, why are you out eating with me if your mind is on someone else?”
His eyes fluttered with feigned dissatisfaction, his lips, moistened by the tea, looking full and succulent. As he poured the tea, his arm, overworked from archery earlier, began to tremble. Shen Heng quickly took the teapot from his hand and pushed his hand aside, “This is not something you should be doing.”
Their fingertips brushed, exchanging the warmth of their skin for an instant.
Song Nanqing should have been seated on the Dragon Throne, revered by all, waited on hand and foot, worrying only for the people and never burdened by trivial matters. The very reason he had stooped to seduce Shen Heng and provoke his anger earlier was precisely this: he could not bear to see Song Nanqing unhappy or compromising, even if it was for his sake.
The ache in his arm reminded Song Nanqing to ask, “Why did you agree to teach me archery today?”
Dish after dish arrived, filling the table, but at this question, both men stopped using their chopsticks.
Sunlight streamed in from the dark wooden window, casting long shadows across the table. Half of Song Nanqing’s face was bathed in sunlight, while the other half was cloaked in shadow, a strand of hair dancing in the breeze.
Shen Heng held his teacup, glancing at him. “Didn’t you say a few days ago that it is better to have one’s own means of survival, so that one does not have to rely on anyone?”
“So, Teacher feels you can no longer protect me?” Song Nanqing asked, looking up. The dark red ribbon tied in his hair mingled with his locks, swaying gently as it rested on his shoulder. “Or is it that there will truly come a day when I cannot rely on you?”
A plate of spicy, fragrant stir-fried rabbit meat arrived, steaming hot. Shen Heng picked up a piece and placed it on the small plate in front of him. “Eat first. We will discuss other matters when we are finished.”
With a crisp sound, Song Nanqing threw his chopsticks onto the table. “Why aren’t you angry?” Intense emotions surged in his eyes; his look was an interrogation.
“Do you still treat me like a child? Is everything I do in your eyes just a childish tantrum? You do not care about the command of the Imperial Army, nor do you care if I am plotting against you, because you feel none of these things can threaten you.”
The commotion drew a glance from Wei Jin in the corner.
Shen Heng looked up, gesturing with his chin toward the scattered chopsticks. “Pick them up.” His voice was low, heavy as the melancholic gloom of the horizon after the sun sinks behind the mountains.
Song Nanqing remained still, staring at the lone piece of rabbit meat on the plate, looking strangely desolate despite being bathed in sunlight.
“What exactly are you fussing about? What reaction do you want from me?” Shen Heng leaned his hand on the bench beside Song Nanqing, grabbed the edge, and pulled. The boy and the stool were swept into his arms.
With strong, powerful arms braced on either side of Song Nanqing, Shen Heng looked down at him, his breath brushing against the boy’s face. “You feel I do not care about you?”
Song Nanqing shook his head. He only felt that he was drifting further and further away from Shen Heng. As he grew up and became more sensible, he realized that what stood between them was not a wall, but a mountain, a mountain that grew taller day by day, splitting their statuses and reversing their roles.
Shen Heng was a teacher, an elder brother, a governing minister, and a partner. But an emperor did not need such things. The art of emperorship he had learned dictated that an emperor needed no emotions, could not rely on others, and could not entrust his sense of security to anyone. The closer he got to being a true emperor, the further he drifted from Shen Heng.
“You want to be a child and enjoy my indulgence, yet you want to prove you have grown up and can threaten me. Isn’t Qingqing asking for too much?” Shen Heng’s eyes narrowed, his tone unreadable. “What reaction does Your Majesty want? Shall I turn against you and stand in opposition, or shall I punish you as I did when we were playing in the past?”
Song Nanqing flinched, but his wrist was seized.
“Ruthlessness without heart is the way of a sovereign. Qingqing, your heart softened; there is no need to blame yourself.” Shen Heng stroked the callus on the boy’s finger. The poisoning of Wang Dinian at the last moment had been Song Nanqing’s own deliberate loophole, perhaps because he still needed Shen Heng and Jia Liang to check each other, or perhaps for another reason. Though Shen Heng had the means to escape unscathed, Song Nanqing had left him room to breathe, choosing not to pin a formal charge of treason on him.
“I am not blaming myself,” Song Nanqing said stubbornly. He did want to strip away power, true, but Shen Heng was too special. He feared Shen Heng would mind his actions, yet also feared he would not mind them at all, which was why he had lost control of his emotions today.
“It is fine. Go ahead and use everything I have taught you against me,” Shen Heng said, raising an eyebrow. “Let us see just how well Your Majesty has learned.”
Song Nanqing was momentarily stunned, disbelieving. He stared at the man, his lips parting slightly as he whispered, “What if I drive you to the gates of hell?”
The words were barely audible, but Shen Heng heard them. He replied, “Do you trust yourself too much, or do you trust me too little?”
The man sitting beside him remained as indestructible as ever, like a mountain that would stand forever, or a river that could properly wrap and surround him, bringing a cooling, soothing gentleness. Song Nanqing leaned over, resting his cheek against Shen Heng’s shoulder. Hidden by their sleeves, he entwined his fingers with the man’s, slowly locking them together.
“I trust myself, and I trust you.”
Shen Heng looked at those bright eyes, his chest tightening slightly. He used one hand to pick up a piece of rabbit meat, intending to put it into his own mouth, but Song Nanqing intercepted it halfway.
The boy opened his mouth and lunged forward, his pearly-white teeth clamping onto the chopsticks, devouring the piece of meat. As he chewed, the spicy, numbing, savory flavors melded together perfectly.
Shen Heng smiled. “Didn’t you say rabbits were cute and you could not bear to eat them?”
Song Nanqing glared at him, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to feast, only to find the chopsticks he had thrown away had vanished, and the container held no more. He realized this was a punishment for his rudeness in throwing his utensils. Accepting Shen Heng’s rules, Song Nanqing resigned himself to his loss of dining privileges.
The boy arched his brow. “You are willing to bully me even though I am so cute; what else would I find unbearable?” He stared at the chopsticks in Shen Heng’s hand, puffing out his cheeks. The man across from him ate with a slow, elegant grace that was beautiful to watch, but Song Nanqing was in no mood for aesthetics; he had ordered a table full of his favorite food, yet he could only watch Shen Heng eat.
“I want that fish.” Song Nanqing scooted closer and tugged on Shen Heng’s sleeve.
The bones had been meticulously picked out of the snow-white fish meat, and it had been soaked in broth, turning an amber hue. The tenderest piece from the fish belly glistened, sparkling alluringly on Shen Heng’s plate.
Song Nanqing swallowed, looking at the man with eager eyes, nodding at the fish repeatedly while holding his hands together against his chest. He swayed slightly, a sliver of his pink tongue visible in his slightly parted mouth.
Truly adorable, Shen Heng thought.
He picked up the fish and held it out, only for Song Nanqing to devour it in one bite.
The Emperor, lord of all under Heaven, watched eagerly as Shen Heng tasted every dish on the table, tapping the table in dissatisfaction. Just as Song Nanqing pouted, finally getting to eat what he wanted, he heard a child passing by say, “Mother, didn’t you say that at five years old I am a big kid and cannot be fed anymore? But that big brother is so old and still cannot feed himself.”
Song Nanqing, a mouthful of rice in his cheeks, turned bright red. To make matters worse, Shen Heng held a spoonful of soup to his lips. “It is fine. Qingqing is only four. It does not matter.”
The red spread from his cheeks to his ears and down to his neck. Song Nanqing felt like burying himself in the ground, covering his face with both hands to hide from it all. If he could not see it, he could pretend it had never happened. An indescribable sense of shame made his entire body tense.
Usually, Shen Heng helped him dress in his undergarments without a hint of shyness, but having it said out loud in public brought a strange, sharp shame. Losing his autonomy while eating really was a punishment.
Shen Heng’s voice reached his ears, addressing the child: “He can eat by himself; he just likes being fed by me.”
Song Nanqing stomped on his foot under the table. That was not the kind of explanation he wanted! And who was the one who liked it?
Soon, the child was led away by his mother. Song Nanqing finally dared to look up, but just as he prepared to scold him, a soft handkerchief wiped his mouth, bringing a faint, clean fragrance.
Song Nanqing clutched the corner of the handkerchief, refusing to let go.
Shen Heng said, “The one you took last time has not been returned yet.”
“I do not know where I put it. Give me another one,” Song Nanqing said, looking up.
Shen Heng refused. “What if you lose it and someone picks it up, claiming we are exchanging private tokens of affection? It would damage my reputation.”
Song Nanqing understood, but deliberately played the contrarian. “What reputation? I heard the Regent brought someone home from Fengqi Tower, and someone even wanted to impeach you for chaotic conduct and keeping little boys.”
Shen Heng narrowed his eyes and leaned in. “Say it again. Impeach me for what?”
Song Nanqing faltered, spinning his hair ribbon around his finger. “Nothing.”
“What kind of little boys am I raising?” Outside, Shen Heng did not do anything inappropriate, only placing his hand on the dark red ribbon. The boy was pulled closer, forced to lower his head.
The shifting sunlight made his head spin and his heart tremble. Close up, Song Nanqing caught the scent of Shen Heng, sandalwood mixed with the smell of burning wood. It was faint but intoxicating. He took a deep breath, and before he knew it, he had moved even closer, his cheek nearly brushing the man’s chin. The ribbon in his hair was tugged backward, increasing the distance between them.
Song Nanqing woke as if from a dream, his lashes fluttering as he breathed, stammering, “Raising me. I do not know.”
At this angle, Song Nanqing looked even younger. Forced to lift his head by his hair ribbon, his eyes were dazed and innocent.
Shen Heng watched him steadily for a moment, his fingers rubbing together as if restraining himself, before he finally reached out to pinch the boy’s cheek.
Nourished daily by rose ointment, Song Nanqing’s skin was soft, smooth, and resilient. His fingers sank into the delicate texture, and he found it impossible to let go.
Compared to the boy’s delicate cheeks, Shen Heng’s fingers were slightly rough, rubbing a patch of pink within moments. Song Nanqing shoved against the man’s arm with his shoulder.
Shen Heng slowly let go and said, syllable by syllable, “There are no little boys.”
“Oh.” Song Nanqing’s eyes darted around. “Last time I went to your mansion, there was a new servant who was clearly a little boy, the one who wiped my hands.”
“He wiped your hands? Who?” Shen Heng asked suddenly, emphasizing the “you,” his expression growing gloomy.
Song Nanqing puffed out his cheeks. “I will not tell you.” Seeing Shen Heng’s face, he added, “There was not one. He was just handing me a handkerchief. Do not cut anyone’s fingers off again; I do not like that.”
“Hmm.” Shen Heng acknowledged, handing him the freshly served milk porridge. He stirred it with the spoon.
Song Nanqing refused to take it, hugging his arms and looking at him sideways. “I am only four.”
Shen Heng offered a faint, imperceptible smile, picking up the spoon and holding it to the boy’s lips, looking down as he said ambiguously, “That is indeed raising a little boy.”
The white porcelain spoon held the snow-white, smooth porridge. As it touched Song Nanqing’s pouting lips, the crimson flesh was stained with white, which he licked away with a darting tongue.
Song Nanqing had not heard him clearly. He looked up, asking, “What?”
With the milk staining his lips and a drop of white on his tongue, his eyes widened in confused inquiry, making him look rounder than ever.
Shen Heng let out a soft breath, his fingers tightening on the spoon’s handle.
“It is nothing.”