The day of the opera engagement arrived.
Arthur had been restless all day, as if he were sitting on a bed of nails. He had changed into no fewer than ten different outfits in front of his walk-in closet’s full-length mirror. From the most formal of galas to relatively casual blazers, he picked up and put down each one, feeling that none was quite perfect. Finally, he steeled his heart and chose a midnight blue velvet suit. It wasn’t too casual, yet lacked the dullness of a black suit, and possessed a subtle shimmer under the light a truly calculated choice.
He arrived at the Royal Opera House half an hour early, clutching the two gold-stamped “Love Seat” tickets in his hands. His palms were beginning to sweat. Inside, the opera house was a temple of gold and crystal; the chandeliers were blindingly bright, and gentlemen and ladies in their finest attire conversed in low tones. The air was a mixture of perfume and high-stakes anticipation.
Arthur didn’t linger in the main hall. Like a thief, he slipped away toward the ornate corridor where their box was located. He leaned against the velvet-wrapped railing, pretending to watch the crowds below, while his heart hammered like a drum.
Love Seats, Shen Yanci actually made me book Love Seats!
Those words had been circling in his head all day. Every time he thought of them, the tips of his ears turned warm. He felt mortified beyond belief, yet he was dying of anticipation. What did Shen Yanci mean by this? Was it purely for the “convenience of business,” or was there just a little bit of something else?
Just as his mind was swirling with chaotic thoughts, a steady set of footsteps sounded behind him. Arthur turned around abruptly.
Shen Yanci had arrived.
He was in his usual perfectly tailored black formal wear; his white shirt buttoned to the very top. His tie was dark gray. He looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a finance magazine chilling, distant, and somewhat out of place in this flamboyant artistic atmosphere. His gaze swept over Arthur, lingering for about half a second on the midnight blue velvet suit. He raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly but said nothing.
Arthur felt a wave of guilt under that look and quickly raised the tickets, offering a dry smile. “Mr. Shen, you’re quite punctual. The, the tickets are here.”
Shen Yanci gave a quiet “Mmh,” walked closer, and naturally took one of the tickets from his hand. His fingertips inevitably brushed against Arthur’s palm, bringing a tiny, tingling sensation. Arthur flinched as if struck by a current, his heart rate accelerating.
“Let’s go.” Shen Yanci acted as if he hadn’t noticed the reaction. He checked the seat numbers and led the way toward the box.
The “Love Seats” were actually a relatively independent small box. The view was excellent directly facing the stage, yet it was far more private than the open seating below. Inside were two wide, comfortable velvet armchairs separated only by a tiny side table for drinks. The distance was so close their arms were practically touching.
The moment he entered this cramped, ambiguous space, Arthur felt the air grow thin. Shen Yanci’s presence was overpowering; the faint, crisp scent of his cedar cologne dominated Arthur’s senses.
Shen Yanci, however, seemed perfectly at ease. He handed his overcoat to the attendant and took his seat in one of the chairs with a relaxed posture. His gaze was fixed on the audience below as the theater filled up, his side profile looking cold and sharp.
Arthur sat stiffly in the adjacent chair, his limbs feeling awkward. He stole a glance at Shen Yanci; the man truly seemed to be there just for the opera, focused and waiting for the curtain to rise.
Did I really overthink it? Does he really just think it’s convenient for business?
The lights gradually dimmed. The final hubbub died down. Arthur felt a bit let down, yet unwilling to give up. He hesitated for a long time before finally leaning in a little, whispering in a soft breath, “Er… Mr. Shen, regarding Parliament.” He tried for a businesslike opening.
Shen Yanci turned his head toward him in the dim light. The glow from the stage faintly outlined his deep features, though his eyes remained obscured.
“Your Highness,” he spoke, his voice pitched very low, carrying a magnetic resonance that struck Arthur’s eardrum. “When the opera begins, maintaining silence is basic etiquette.”
Arthur: “…” He felt stifled, his face heating up as he withdrew. “…Oh.”
Fine, I brought that on myself.
Just then, the overture began, the grand music instantly filling the theater. The curtain rose, and the story of Don Giovanni commenced. Arthur forced himself to focus on the stage, but with Shen Yanci sitting right there, concentration was impossible. He could clearly feel the heat of the man’s body and hear his steady breathing.
On stage, Don Giovanni began his flamboyant hunt for women, singing a beguiling aria. Arthur watched absentmindedly, his fingers unconsciously picking at the velvet of the armchair.
Suddenly, he felt the person beside him move.
Shen Yanci seemed to adjust his posture. His hand, which had been resting on the armrest, now “naturally” dropped into the narrow gap between their chairs. Then, his pinky finger, seemingly inadvertently, lightly touched the back of Arthur’s hand, which was also resting there.
Arthur froze. Every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush toward that tiny point of contact.
It’s, it’s an accident, right? He held his breath, not daring to move an inch. But that cool pinky finger did not move away. Instead, it remained there, elusive and light, and even gave an extremely slight rub. The movement was gentle and slow. It felt like a test, or perhaps an unconscious friction.
Arthur’s heart felt as if it would leap from his throat! He snapped his head around to look at Shen Yanci. The man was still looking at the stage, his profile appearing deep and focused in the flickering light. He looked entirely immersed in the story of the philandering Earl, seemingly oblivious to the movement of his own hand.
But Arthur saw his Adam’s apple bob almost imperceptibly.
On stage, Don Giovanni was singing a soulful yet hypocritical love song. Below, in the dim box, the air was as thick as unrefined honey. Arthur felt as though the patch of skin on the back of his hand was about to be set on fire. His pulse thundered; his brain was a mess of confusion.
What is this? Business?!
Just as his brain short-circuited, unsure whether to pull his hand away or do something else, Shen Yanci’s fingers moved again. This time, it wasn’t a tentative pinky touch. His entire palm, carrying an indisputable force, slowly covered Arthur’s hand, completely enveloping the youth’s trembling fingers.
Dry, cool, yet possessed of a powerful strength, it wrapped him up entirely.
Arthur’s breath hitched. He froze completely, his eyes wide and round as he looked at their joined hands, then up at Shen Yanci.
Shen Yanci still didn’t look at him. But his thumb began to lightly and slowly stroke the back of Arthur’s hand. The pad of his thumb, with its thin calluses, brushed over the delicate skin, sending waves of shivering itches and tingling through Arthur.
Again. And again. It was a silent, ultimate display of ambiguity and control.
Arthur’s face turned bright red, the heat spreading to his entire body. He wanted to pull back, but found he had no strength left; he felt limp against the chair, able only to let the man hold and caress him.
He had no idea what was happening on stage anymore. His ears were filled only with the deafening sound of his own heart and the rush of his blood.
Shen Yanci finally turned his head to look at him. In the dim light, his gaze was unfathomable, swirling with thick emotions that Arthur couldn’t decipher. He leaned closer, his warm breath sweeping over Arthur’s burning ear, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, carrying a trace of elusive teasing:
“Now…”
“…Do you still think I am here to discuss business, Your Highness?”
Arthur opened his mouth, but not a single syllable would come out. He could only look at him with shimmering, watery eyes filled with shock and bashfulness.
Shen Yanci seemed to let out a low laugh, the sound made Arthur’s eardrums tingle. He didn’t release his hand; instead, he gripped it tighter, his thumb continuing to linger on that delicate patch of skin.
Then, he turned back to the stage, as if that world-shattering question and that intimate gesture was merely a minor interlude during the opera.
He left only Arthur behind, one hand tightly gripped, his face as red as a cooked shrimp, and his soul nearly leaving his body. He sat dazed in his seat, listening to his heart, which felt ready to explode.
It’s over. Completely over.
What iceberg? This is a volcano! And it just erupted!