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The merchant had assured Ying Si that the powder was tasteless, no side effects, but unease had stirred in the back of his mind even as he dictated the invitation to a servant: would the Lord Shang visit the palace this evening for a private audience with His Highness the new duke of Qin.
When Shang Yang's cup touches his lips and immediately stills, Ying Si realizes that, privately, he'd expected this to happen all along. The merchant had assured Ying Si that the powder was tasteless, but Lord Shang is... Lord Shang.
Shang Yang sets down his cup neatly. “Would you dismiss the servants for a moment?” he addresses to Ying Si. The calm in his eyes is suffocating.
“Of course.” Ying Si waves the servants away. Shang Yang waits until they leave the range of hearing to speak.
“I'm sure you went to a reputable merchant, but the powder is only tasteless when you do not put five or six times the dose into a single drink.” Shang Yang's voice is gentle. “While your high estimate of my virtue is flattering, my advanced age would have made me unlikely to survive it. There are better uses of my death.”
No, Ying Si thinks. He can't imagine Shang Yang dying from it. It's absurd in a way that doesn't fit into words, in a way that brings back the discomfort worse than before, thick and cloying on top of the suppressed panic of discovery. But Ying Si learned rulership from masters of the art: his back and shoulders are relaxed, his expression is sympathetic but unrepentant, and he says, “Perhaps my demonstration was too forward, but I'd wanted to make a point.”
“Oh?”
The words come out easily. “My actions would have been fully legal if you didn't die or receive debilitating injury. The act of drugging you in itself without intent to harm isn't covered in the Qin statutes as they stand. The few oversights in an otherwise comprehensive document will draw the eye.”
“The lack of deterrent would be akin to encouragement,” Shang Yang says. There's a ghost of what might be approval in his voice, intoxicating.
“This particular situation would have been unthinkable in Qin twenty years ago, but trade has increased since then. The law needs to keep pace with the changes it's wrought, and I think there's still ways to do that without compromising its dependability in the eyes of the people. In this case, the law codes could be added to, not altered, which would less disturb the existing body. Surely that makes a better alternative than allowing such humiliations and potential deaths to occur?”
“I don't fault that great changes will continue to occur in the coming years,” Shang Yang says, “although I believe that places further weight on law remaining the one great constant. But though I disagree, your argument was indeed impressively made. I trust in you and your generation to choose the course of Qin wisely."
“I won't fail your trust,” Ying Si says, the tension in his chest melting away.
“Now, I suppose you should remove your clothes.”
Ying Si's hand automatically goes to his collar, but then his mind finishes processing. He freezes. He doesn't know whether to drop his hand or continue.
Shang Yang's gaze meets his without a ripple. “You should have just asked. I have no objections toward you and no other use of this evening.”
And no love left to give me, Ying Si thinks, but the thought is drowned out by the desperate rush of blood in his ears. “My father--”
Shang Yang laughs, then.“You didn't think of him earlier. But if he would grudge you and I anything, I think he'll have far better to choose from before the year is out.” He stands and walks to Ying Si's side of the table, more graceful in his heavy court robes than Ying Si thinks he himself will ever be. He asks, “What would you like?”
Memories flash in front of Ying Si's eyes: a winter night, many years ago, Shang Yang and his father entangled and laughing; a winter night, recent enough to reach for, Shang Yang's hand alighting on his father's like a hawk returning to its master. “Your hands,” he says.
“That won't be a problem,” Shang Yang murmurs, kneeling.
He reaches for Ying Si's belt, then the fastenings of his robes. Ying Si tries to help him, but his fingers are suddenly uncoordinated, knocking against Shang Yang's. Any moment now, he realizes, Shang Yang will allow him to fumble at the fastenings alone, waiting wordlessly as he undresses himself as clumsily as a child, watching—he snatches his hands away, heart pounding, and lets Shang Yang open his robes deftly.
Every graze of Shang Yang's fingers sends impossible heat jolting through four layers of fabric, then three, then two. The air is thin and harsh in Ying Si's lungs. He has to shut his eyes before Shang Yang even tugs aside his small-clothes.
He thinks he cries out, but his own heartbeat cracks like thunder in his chest. The sound is deafening. His fingers clench into fabric, the hem of a robe, maybe his own, until the embroidery graves his flesh with the shapes of dragons.
Shang Yang is stroking him, pleasuring him. Sensation crashes into his body and drives out the breath; he clutches at the edge of the table like a drowning man. Bright spots edge the insides of his eyelids. His throat strains. How does he still have breath to make sound?
He arches, his hips bucking against Shang Yang's grip. The friction verges on pain. Then it is pain. He's never come harder in his life.
Everything's too bright when Ying Si opens his eyes. He's still shaking when Shang Yang reaches for his own sleeves, tuts vexedly halfway, reaches into Ying Si's. His fingertips graze the inside of Ying Si's naked forearm, making little wet marks, and Ying Si bites back a moan.
Shang Yang finds the kerchief tucked in his sleeve and draws it out. “Did you learn the habit from him?” He sounds genuinely curious. Ying Si doesn't reply, isn't in any condition to reply. He feels empty, overturned.
Shang Yang cleans him off, then wipes his own hands. He begins to refasten Ying Si's robes meticulously, smoothing at the fabric, adjusting the slack at each fastening. It's not out of care for him, or an attempt to hide what happened. It's to while away the time.
The emptiness feels like it's swallowing Ying Si from the inside. What remains might be enough. “Thank you,” Ying Si says courteously, and puts a hand on Shang Yang's to stop him.Ying Si's own fingers trip over each other even worse than before, but he persists. He ties everything, clasps everything, tucks each layer of his robes into place. He looks up, once; Shang Yang is watching him patiently. He holds Shang Yang's gaze for a correct length of time before returning to his belt.
When Ying Si finishes, his heart still beats a little too fast, but evenly, measured. He looks up. He says, “Would you grant me your presence again another evening?”
“If the occasion presents itself. If the wine is fit to drink,” Shang Yang says. His slow smile is enough to quicken Ying Si's breath. “Leave powders to the physicians; you are a ruler of men, and have better weapons at your disposal.”
“I'll bring you the best from the cellars,” Ying Si tells him. Ying Si's own wine cup still stands untouched, but for a few drops spilled when he'd grabbed at the table. He slides it along the table toward Shang Yang; he doesn't pick up the cup when he knows his hands would shake. But his intent is sincere and absolute. “Consider this a forward.”
Shang Yang accepts the cup, his fingers brushing Ying Si's, and drinks. “Until next time, Your Highness,” he says, setting the cup down. He stands and bows. Ying Si waves permission to leave, and watches as he disappears into the darkness of evening.
He takes his cup and drinks what's left. The taste of Shang Yang, heat on the metal, is a promise. Until next time, Your Highness, he'd said.
And Ying Si does bring him the wine, later, but not during an evening.