During the afternoon self-study period, Shi Huai was practicing his calligraphy, his brush whispering across the xuan paper.
He was writing the small regular script version of “Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River,” rendering every stroke with exquisite precision.
Compared with two years ago, his handwriting had improved by leaps and bounds. His brushwork was more vigorous, his structure more disciplined and refined, and there were already faint signs of the makings of a great master.
Shen Jinghong sat beside him, a brush in hand as well, scribbling away on his own paper. Yet his gaze kept drifting toward Shi Huai’s work.
He watched each character take shape beneath Shi Huai’s brush, from “light as a startled swan” to “graceful as a swimming dragon.” Every character seemed to come alive, leaping and dancing across the paper.
“Brother Shen, have you finished your calligraphy? The teacher said we have to hand in three sheets.”
Shi Huai did not even raise his head as he asked, his brush gliding across the paper. He had just completed the final stroke of “as indistinct as the moon veiled by thin clouds.”
Shen Jinghong lowered his head and looked at the paper before him.
It contained only a few scribbles that resembled nothing so much as meaningless scrawls, their crooked, cramped shapes huddled together. Compared with Shi Huai’s work, they were worlds apart.
He crumpled the sheet into a ball and tossed it aside, then spread out a fresh piece of xuan paper. Raising his brush, he took a deep breath and began to write in earnest.
He wrote with extraordinary concentration.
Every stroke was made with all his strength. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead, and the fingers gripping the brush turned faintly white from the pressure.
He took every word Shi Huai had said to heart.
“Keep the horizontal strokes level and the vertical strokes straight.”
“Conceal the brush tip when beginning a stroke, and return it when finishing.”
“Keep the structure balanced, and give every stroke strength.”
These principles echoed over and over in his mind.
After a long while, he finally set down his brush and examined what he had written. It was still nowhere near one ten-thousandth as good as Shi Huai’s, but it had improved considerably compared with before. At the very least, it looked like actual writing now.
He turned, intending to share this small achievement with Shi Huai, only to discover that Shi Huai had already fallen asleep with his head on the desk.
The brush rested across the inkstone, and the ink had not yet dried completely. It had seeped across the xuan paper, blooming into a small patch of black.
Shen Jinghong gazed at Shi Huai’s sleeping face, unconsciously quieting his breathing for fear of waking him.
Shi Huai’s eyelashes were long and thick, even more pronounced in sleep.
They lay over his eyelids like two little fans. His nose rose high and straight like a mountain peak, while his lips were a soft, understated vermilion, their corners curved faintly upward.
Even in sleep, he wore a hint of an enigmatic smile.
The setting sun slanted through the window, its orange-red light falling across Shi Huai’s face and coating his fair skin in a warm glow.
That face looked neither entirely real nor like something painted. It was more like a dream abandoned by the gods in the mortal world—so beautiful that one hardly dared touch it, afraid it would shatter at the slightest contact.
Shen Jinghong simply watched Shi Huai sleep, unmoving, for a very long time.
Long enough for the sunset to fade from orange-red to deep crimson. Long enough for the bell signaling the end of self-study to ring.
Only then did he jolt back to his senses as if awakening from a profound dream. His heart pounded like a war drum, his face burned as though he had a high fever, and his palms were slick with sweat.
He drew a deep breath, removed his outer robe, and carefully draped it over Shi Huai’s shoulders. His movements were as gentle as if he were handling an exquisitely delicate piece of porcelain, afraid that the slightest mistake might wake him.
When the robe settled over him, Shi Huai’s brows drew together slightly, and Shen Jinghong’s heart seemed to stop for an entire beat.
But Shi Huai merely shifted into a more comfortable position and continued sleeping. He rubbed his cheek against the collar of the robe like a little cat searching for the perfect place to rest.
Shen Jinghong’s suspended heart finally settled. Watching Shi Huai nuzzle against his robe, he could not help smiling.
The smile held a softness and indulgence of which he himself was entirely unaware. He looked nothing like the usually proud and unruly Shen Jinghong.
Gu Changning rose from beside the bookshelves and slipped the book, its edges worn and frayed, into his satchel.
His gaze swept casually toward Shi Huai. He saw him sleeping with his head on the desk. He saw Shen Jinghong’s outer robe draped over his shoulders. He saw his peaceful sleeping face and the faint upward curve of his lips…
Gu Changning’s pupils contracted slightly. His fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel, his knuckles paling as if they might snap.
He turned and walked out without looking back, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, hurried and heavy.
By the time Shi Huai woke, hardly anyone remained in the classroom.
The last rays of sunset were fading from the horizon, and dusk was pouring in from every direction, bathing the entire room in gray-blue shadows.
He rubbed his eyes and realized that a sapphire-blue outer robe had been draped over his shoulders. It carried the faint scent of pinewood incense—the fragrance Shen Jinghong always used.
“Awake?”
Shen Jinghong’s voice came from beside him, tinged with a lazy smile.
Shi Huai turned and saw Shen Jinghong sitting in the chair next to him, dressed only in a thin inner robe.
His arms were folded across his chest, his peach-blossom eyes half-lidded, and the corners of his mouth curved in a faintly enigmatic smile. He looked as though he had been sitting there for quite some time.
Shen Jinghong’s inner robe was moon-white, made of exceptionally fine fabric that reflected a gentle sheen in the dusk. It set off his androgynously beautiful face, lending him an added touch of cool elegance.
“Why did you give me your outer robe? Aren’t you cold?”
Shi Huai removed the robe from his shoulders and held it out to him. His voice was husky from sleep, but rather than harsh, it carried an indescribable magnetism.
Shen Jinghong accepted the robe but did not put it on at once. Instead, he held it loosely in his hands.
His gaze settled on Shi Huai’s face, his peach-blossom eyes filled with an earnestness utterly unlike his usual self.
“I’m not cold. I’m in good health. Unlike you—you always catch cold the moment you fall asleep.”
“Who says I caught a cold?”
Shi Huai rose and stretched. As his back extended, a string of tiny cracking sounds came from his spine.
His bamboo-green robe swept out in an elegant arc against the dusk.
“Your nose.”
Shen Jinghong pointed at Shi Huai’s nose, the smile at the corners of his lips deepening. “You sneeze whenever you sleep. Did you think I hadn’t noticed?”
Shi Huai instinctively touched his nose. It did feel a little itchy, though he showed no sign of sneezing.
He was just about to argue when his nose suddenly tickled.
“Achoo!”
The crisp sneeze rang through the empty classroom several times.
Shen Jinghong burst out laughing. His peach-blossom eyes curved into crescent moons, and he leaned back so hard that he nearly toppled over, chair and all.
He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, but his laughter did not stop.
Shi Huai rubbed his nose and shot Shen Jinghong a glare. There was no anger in it, only helplessness, and yet the corners of his own lips unconsciously lifted a little.
Shen Jinghong caught that tiny upward curve.
His laughter cut off abruptly, and his heart felt as though an invisible hand had seized it in a sudden, merciless grip.
By the time they had gathered their things and left the classroom, night was close at hand.
Lanterns had been lit throughout the Imperial Academy.
Their orange-yellow light cast warm pools of radiance across the flagstone paths. Shi Huai walked ahead, while Shen Jinghong followed half a step behind.
Neither ahead of him nor behind—maintaining a distance that was just right.
