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They’re sixteen when they meet again. It’s Yevnai’s first time leaving Ionia and her heart is thudding with anxiety despite her father’s constant assurances that Shen’s a nice boy, you’ll be fine. It’s been years since she last saw him, back when he was seven years old and too afraid of girls to even stutter out a word to her.
She wonders if he’s changed—if he’s the same awkward, stammering mess he was all those years ago, or if he’s finally blossomed into the charming, handsome heir he was always meant to be. She’s thought about him the whole flight here, wondering if he’s like the boys at school, with their inflated egos and sense of entitlement, or if he’s different—lovely and kind and noble like some sort of fairytale prince.
She wonders if he thinks of her too, if he dreams of her like she has him, if he lies in bed tossing and turning, sick with anxiety about his future wife and duties as his father’s firstborn.
The car ride is long, but not long enough. Her father sits across from her, her mother’s head resting on his shoulder as they stare out the window. Yevnai watches them speak in hushed, amused tones, listens to her mother’s soft laughs after her father lets out yet another sardonic remark about the city, and hopes that she’ll have something like that one day.
Her parents’ marriage was arranged and they turned out okay, she tells herself, but she picks relentlessly at her nails all the same. It’s fine, it’s fine, Shen is fine, and it’s not like they have to love each other. They just have to do their duties; that’s all he is, really: a responsibility.
When the car rolls to a stop in front of a large, but rather unassuming home in the middle of suburbia, Yevnai exhales. A man Yevnai recognizes as Shen’s father stands outside the front door, servants lining the path forward.
“Finally,” her father huffs, opening the door and stepping out as soon as the engine cuts.
“Are you nervous, sweetheart?” Her mother asks, leaning forward and taking her hands into hers. Her eyes are soft when Yevnai finds them and her smile is small, but hopeful.
Yevnai blinks, her painted lips breaking out into a gentle smile.
“Just a little,” she lies. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
Her mother’s smile falters. Her thumb strokes the back of Yevnai’s palm.
“Well,” she says quietly. “Let’s get on with it then.”
Outside, her father offers his hand to her mother, while Yevnai slips out the other door, her eyes downcast as the humid, dew-tinged air swallows her in its heat.
The neighborhood is rather secluded; each house is seated on expansive plots of land, spaced out so as to afford privacy to each resident. Each house is decorated by rows and rows of well-kept shrubbery and blossoming flowers, while expensive cars sit in the driveway.
At the door, her parents are already engaged in hearty conversation with Mr. Kusho. Servants unload their luggage with practiced efficiency, paying no mind to the girl standing wordlessly by the curb. She hugs her arms close before she looks up, pulling her shawl tight against her back like an armor of sorts, and finds that Shen is nowhere to be found. There is no boy by Kusho’s side, and Yevnai can’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved.
“Daughter, come here,” her father calls, as if remembering her for the first time that day.
“Coming,” she says tonelessly. She takes her time walking up the steps, but does not delay longer than appropriate. “Mr. Kusho.”
His features are hard, but his face is kind, expression softening into fondness for his future daughter-in-law. There is an edge behind it though, one that she can attribute only to Shen’s absence.
“Yevnai,” he says pleasantly. “You’ve grown, I see.”
“It has been a few years,” she says, with a practiced smile.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “You’re a capable young woman now. Perhaps you’ll be able to knock some sense into my son at last.”
She laughs, musical and all too perfect.
“Perhaps I will,” she says.
They take their pleasantries to the living room after that. The servants have moved all their belongings into the guest rooms, with Yevnai’s own room just next to Shen’s. The conversation is rather boring; Kusho engages them in matters of business and politics and a million other things Yevnai neither understands nor cares about. The one time her father asks of Shen’s whereabouts, Kusho speaks bitterly of shirking responsibilities and foolish phases.
It seems like an eternity before the mundanity ends with the roar of engine and the sound of muffled laughter. It’s half past three when a boy that can only be Shen finally stumbles inside, and to her surprise, he is not alone.
Another boy follows him inside, an arm slung over his shoulders, his shaggy white hair falling into his amber eyes. Shen’s hair is pulled back into a ponytail, thick strands falling loosely into his face. When he steps inside, his loose smile slips from his lips. She watches his whole body tense, his legs freezing in place and arms tensing as he meets his father’s darkening eyes.
Beside him, the other boy’s hand falls to his side, but he doesn’t step away.
“Father,” Shen says stiffly. He is handsome, she thinks vaguely. He has his father’s features, yet he is entirely unlike him, with soft, emotive eyes and lips that seem almost to tremble. His hair falls into his face, endearing in its chaos, and there is a strength to him that makes Yevnai think, oh.
“Shen,” Mr. Kusho says, from behind her. “You are late.”
“I—” A pause. He lowers his head and casts his eyes to the ground as if that would be enough to mask his presence. “Forgive me, Yevnai. I was…” He glances at the boy beside him. Guilt crosses his face, heavy and listless. He tears his eyes away. “Preoccupied. I lost track of time.”
“It’s quite alright,” she says. “I…” Yevnai rises, feeling her parents’ eyes on her, but it’s not until Shen’s warm brown eyes meet hers that her years and years of practiced smiles and pretty words fail her. He is lovely, even to a distant spectator, but when he catches her gaze, emotion whirling behind those endless dark eyes, she fears she will never break free.
A beat passes, then two, then three, before the moment drags on in stifling silence. Shen does not look away, so neither does she.
“I hope you will forgive me,” Mr. Kusho cuts in. “This is my ward, Usan. He is always dragging my son off to places he shouldn’t.” He says it with a laugh, but the tension in the room is obvious when Usan’s lips twitch, his eyes closed off. “He will be heading to his room for the evening.”
“Right,” Usan says, and Shen breaks eye contact, gaze flitting toward the sound of his voice like some teenage siren song. Shen’s lips part as if to say something, but it doesn’t seem to matter; they speak with their eyes, a secret language known only to them. Usan shifts, feet stepping toward the stairs, but it’s his fingers that Yevnai fixates on, gentle and comforting. His knuckles brush against Shen’s when they part, a mournful look in his eyes, and the intimacy of it all is enough to make her sick.
When Usan is gone, she feels only relief.
-
“How was your flight?” he asks, after his father insists they get reacquainted in the sunroom. She sits in a white cushioned sofa, while Shen paces restlessly around the room, fixing odd little things until there’s nothing left to fix. His back is to her half the time, his white button-up hugging the planes of his muscles as he goes to pour her some water.
“It was okay,” she says, fingers clutching the fabric of her dress. “Long, I suppose. It’s the first time I’ve been on a flight that long.”
“It takes getting used to, I guess,” he says. Ice water streams into the glass, his fingers strong and sure around the handle.
“Do you fly often, then?” she asks. He brings the glass over and sets it on a wooden coaster resting on the table beside her before he sits down on the sofa beside her.
“Sort of,” he says, looking to the side, a private little smile on his lips. She wonders what he’s thinking of, but a part of her already knows it’s moreso a who than a what. “Usan and I…uh…Father sends us to these dumb little retreats, you know? Every summer, we go across Valoran to wherever. It’s really just an excuse to get rid of us for a couple weeks.”
He sounds so fond, wistful, almost, and for a second, envy cuts through her like an formless blade. They’re friends, she thinks, brothers, practically. It’s irrational, this feeling, and yet a part of her longs for that, longs for whatever precious, nameless thing they so clearly have.
“Oh,” she exhales.
When he looks back at her, his eyes widen for just a moment and his ears seem to redden.
“Oh—um—I—it’s just—it’s nice to get away from my dad, you know,” he sputters. “Not that he’s bad or anything, it’s just—well—”
“No, I get it,” she says, leaning forward, her hands instinctively finding Shen’s. She covers his hand with hers, her palm cold compared to the heat of his hands. “I feel the same way, sometimes. A lot of times, really.”
She smiles hesitantly. When she finally looks at him, he’s staring at her, too.
“Do you think—do you think this could work?” he asks. That could mean a million different things, she thinks, but somehow, she gets it.
“Yeah,” she says tenuously. “Maybe, I think. We could make it work, you and me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He huffs out a laugh, and this time, her smile is real.
“What?” she asks. “You don’t think we could?”
“No, I just—it’s kind of weird, you know? Last time I saw you, you were just some girl and now…”
“Now we are to be married.”
Her voice is quiet.
“Now we’re getting married,” he echoes.
The hint of disappointment beneath the propriety stings, somehow. It’s not like she’s under any delusions: he didn’t want this and neither did she.
“Hey,” she says, lightening her tone despite her mood. “You’re not so bad. A little dorky, but definitely cute.”
He snorts, his smile returning.
“Well you’re not so bad yourself, Lady Yevnai,” he teases. She nudges him, softer than she would a friend.
“Stop,” she says, with a grin. “You sound like the guys in Ionia.”
“They call you that up there?”
“At parties and stuff, yeah, complete with the whole hand-kissing crap.”
“Hm. You think I should be jealous? You know, as your future husband?”
“Perhaps,” she says, looking away demurely. It’s silent for a while; it’s an easy, comfortable silence, and Yevnai thinks that perhaps this will be easier than she’d once thought.
“I’m serious, though,” he says. “I was scared you’d be… different. Like your parents—no offense! The people my dad hangs out with generally…uh…”
“Have sticks up their asses?”
He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“Something like that,” he says. “But no, you’re uh—you’re really cool, I mean it. You’re—well. Normal.”
“I guess I’ll have to take that as a compliment,” she says with a laugh. “I think we’re the only two normal people in my dad’s little circle.”
“No, yeah,” he says. “I don’t know how you haven’t gone crazy yet.”
“A lifetime of it helps,” she says leaning back into cushions. “Though honestly I’m not sure I haven’t.”
“I—” Shen stops, his eyes drawn to the door behind her. When she turns, Usan stands in the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Hey,” he hisses. “You coming or what?”
Shen rises almost immediately.
“What? I can’t leave, she’s literally right here,” he says. She resists the urge to make a face. She is right here, but Usan talks through her, as if she were nothing but a ghost.
“Okay?”
“Okay?” Shen repeats, incredulous. “Usan.”
“Shen, you promised.”
“Dad’s already pissed, dumbass,” he says. “Who knows what he’ll do if I screw this up? Besides, it’s just rude.”
“I’m sure Yevnai won’t mind,” Usan says. It’s the first time he’s even acknowledged her. She wishes he hadn’t. “Right, Yevnai?”
“I—”
“See? She’s a big girl. She’ll be fine for a couple hours.”
“It’s never a couple hours with you.”
“Shen.”
“Usan.”
Shen stares at him, as if fighting in some silent battle, or losing more like. His features soften, and when he looks back at her, there’s an apology already forming on his lips.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, and she can tell he means it. “I promised I would go to this thing and it’s really the only time—”
“It’s fine,” she says, cutting him off. She forces the words out, trying her best to maintain her open, accommodating image. “I get it. He’s your brother, right? Family first? I could cover for you.”
“Uh—”
“Exactly,” Usan says, and a seed of resentment burrows deep in her chest. “Come on, Shen. Before Kusho notices.”
“I’ll make this up to you, I promise,” he says, already walking out toward the door. She watches him, her eyes finding Usan’s hand once again, drawn to the way his fingers wrap possessively around his forearm. “Thanks, I’ll—”
And then, he’s gone, hurt blossoming in his wake.
-
“You’re too good to that boy, Kusho,” her father says over dinner. “If I were his guardian, he’d’ve been out on the streets years ago.”
Kusho says something back, but Yevnai’s not listening. She can’t get it out of her head, Usan’s hand around Shen’s arm.
It makes her irrationally, stupidly angry, because what right does she have to care? She’s only a stranger, except she’s not. She’s his fiancee, his betrothed, his future wife. She is his and he is hers. The statement rings false, even in her head. It only makes her angrier.
She stands. Father looks up at her and so does Kusho. Her mother does not.
“I am going to bed for the night,” she says. “Goodnight, sir.”
She goes to her room and lies awake for hours.
-
At two in the morning, there is a knock at Yevnai’s door. It is quiet and unassuming, and if they weren’t miles away from the city, she would not have heard it. Her heart pounds.
“Come in,” she calls, tremulous.
The knob turns, and there he is. Shen stands in the doorway, already tall and broad for a boy his age. His hair is a mess; strands of hair slip from his ponytail and fall into his face. The scent of liquor clings to his clothes, but she can tell he’s completely sober.
“Hey,” he says quietly. She sits up, and she knows she must look a mess, what with her hair undone and sticking up every which way.
“Hey,” she echoes. He steps inside. She can hear the shuffle of footsteps outside and knows it’s him.
Shen shuts the door with a click. He steps closer and settles at the foot of her bed.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t right to leave you like that. There’s no excuse.”
He looks at her, moonlight reflected in his eyes. She inhales sharply. She looks away.
“You’re right,” Yevnai says finally. “There is no excuse.”
The silence that follows is a lonely one, and perhaps, it was by then that she should have known: they could have never worked.