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You ask him on a whim.
“Jing Yuan, can I try your flute?”
He pauses in the middle of disassembling the instrument, having spent the past hour spinning melodies into the warm, afternoon air. “You would like me to teach you?” he asks in confirmation. At your nod, the skin around his eyes wrinkle, eyes forming crescent moons as the curl of a pointer finger beckons you toward him. “Curious little thing.” The words are spoken soft and low, a rumble that sends a shiver up your spine.
Heat rises to your cheeks. You focus on carefully laying a red silk ribbon between the pages of your book before setting it aside. The grass of the garden crinkles softly beneath your feet with every step, bringing you before the General sitting on the wooden veranda, whose golden eyes have not left your form since you asked him the question.
You rock once on the balls of your feet, hands clasped behind you. “What do I do?”
His head tilts, silvery-grey hair falling over one eye. “How will I teach you when you’re so far away, hm?” Cloth rustles as he languidly spreads his legs, thighs straining against the fabric of his pants. Jing Yuan pats at the space between his legs.
Your voice comes out strangled. “You want me to sit there?”
He ignores your question, simply choosing to smile. The honey-gold of his eyes coax and pull until you give in and step against the edge of the veranda. You turn and slowly take a seat, his gaze burning through you, licking a trail of heat up your spine. His thighs bracket yours, warm and unyielding.
“Good,” he says when you are settled, your back a sparrow’s hop away from pressing into his chest. “Shall we begin?”
At your shallow nod, he brings his flute in front of you, arms settling around you closer than what you think is necessary.
The lacquered wood gleams a soft, light brown. Jing Yuan’s thumb brushes over the first hole on the left side of the flute. “This is the embouchure hole.” His voice is a comforting rumble as he explains the basics. “Sound is produced by putting your lower lip against this side”—he touches the side of the hole closest to you—”and blowing a steady stream of air, aiming for the outside wall. Shall we give it a try?”
You look over your shoulder, squinting at him. “That’s it? What about the fingers?”
His tone is fond as he says, “The biggest challenge for novice players is producing a steady, full tone. Let us achieve that first before I teach you the notes. Do you find that acceptable?”
The sparkle of amusement in his liquid-gold eyes makes you a bit shy as you huff and look forward again. “Fine. Let me try.”
He raises his arms, left and right hands properly holding the flute, and brings the instrument to your mouth. One of your hands reaches for Jing Yuan’s arm and he lets you move them without any resistance, muscles shifting beneath your palm as you make him lower the flute just a bit so you do not need to strain your neck to reach it. It takes a few moments longer to comfortably rest your lower lip on the instrument, making sure to not cover the opening.
You take a slow, deep breath. Your shoulders rise as you inhale, staying tense as you pause, then exhale with a whoosh through pursed lips.
All you hear is the barely-there whistle of wind blowing through a hollow tube.
You try again, but the flute makes no sound. One more time, for good measure. The hollow, airy whistle only seems to mock you. Your face grows hot.
Sensing your mounting frustration, Jing Yuan pulls the flute away and holds it off to the side. He frees a hand to comfort you, rubbing you from shoulder to elbow, shoulder to elbow, with slow, warm strokes.
“Do not fret,” he croons. “It takes time for one to make a sound on the flute. When Yanqing first started learning, he spent two weeks practicing before he was able to play a single note.”
“Really?” You don’t recall ever seeing Yanqing with a flute.
“After he made that sound, he declared that he had spent enough time on something other than swordsmanship. I offered to teach him more later, but he expressed little interest.” Jing Yuan chuckles at the memory.
A small smile graces your lips. You relax a bit, finally leaning into his broad chest as he continues to rub your arm.
“I could impart additional advice, if you wish to try again.”
Frustration eased, you are eager to give the flute another attempt, and you relay that to your lover. He sounds pleased as he begins to explain the different factors that can affect how a player produces a note. His voice rises and falls—a soothing cadence. You become absorbed in listening to him, occasionally tilting your head back to look at him, where his warm gaze holds yours until you grow shy and face forward again.
He removes his hand from your arm, drawing your gaze to him once more. “It is important to breathe from your stomach, not with your shoulders.” A searing heat against your belly makes your breath hitch. You turn to see his hand settle there, thick fingers spread out in a way that only draws attention to his size. You can’t look away.
“Let us practice some breathing exercises. Focus on moving my hand as you breathe.” His voice rumbles through you as his touch binds you together, melting two into one. “Ready?”
Your nod is shallow and so are your breaths. How are you supposed to go through with these exercises?
“Inhale,” he instructs.
You try, breath wobbling as you inhale quickly.
He clicks his tongue in warning. “Slowly. Fill your lungs with air.”
You breathe again, taking care to do so deeply, focusing on the weight of his hand on your belly. It rises and falls with every breath as you grow used to the rhythmic lull of slow, deep breathing.
“Well done,” he all but purrs into your ear.
Surely he feels the tremor that runs through you, with the way you’re pressed against each other. Yet Jing Yuan simply moves on to discussing another aspect of flute playing, giving you a moment to regain composure. “The shape of your embouchure also impacts your ability to make a sound. May you demonstrate how you blew into the flute earlier?”
Nodding, you look over your shoulder and purse your lips into a rosebud, then relax and tell him, “I was blowing like that.”
“I see.” Mirth radiates off him, sparkling in his eyes, and your lips push into a pout. His thumb rubs against your belly in consolation as he says, “I suggest relaxing your lips so they form a horizontal line against the flute. Leave a small opening in the middle, the way you usually do when drinking freshly brewed tea and are cautious about burning yourself.”
You are reminded of the afternoon teas you’ve enjoyed in his presence and your pout turns into a smile as you take in his advice.
A twinge in your neck makes you adjust yourself, pulling one leg up to lean against his thigh, upper body twisting around to face him. One hand rests on his broad chest and his free hand supports your lower back. Earnestly, you try again, making an effort to pull your lips into a tight line and blowing a gust of air through them.
The wind you blow ruffles Jing Yuan’s hair, making more of it fall into his eye. You shoot him a cheeky look before doing it again. Now it’s his turn to pout to your delighted giggles and you blow one more time for good measure.
But the General will not allow himself to be teased endlessly, especially when he has a chance to strike back. A glint crosses his eyes, as if a switch has been flicked. You don’t have time to react as the hand on your lower back disappears, only to come up to grasp your face. His hand is huge, fingers pressing into your cheeks as your chin is cradled in his palm, forcing you to look at him.
“If you are going to behave in this manner, you will learn the proper embouchure. Understood?”
His firm grip only allows you to give a shallow nod, eyes wide and breath caught in your throat, pulse fluttering like a songbird under his piercing stare.
“Good. Now show me again.” His fingers ease up so he’s simply tilting your face toward him, forcing you to hold his gaze.
Swallowing, you try again. Lips pull tightly in a line, an opening in the middle for air. “Like that?”
“Hmm, not quite.” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, golden eyes tracing the curve of it. “Your mouth is too tight. Soften your lower lip, the same way you pouted moments ago.”
Doing as he suggests, you pull your lips straight while keeping them relaxed, only feeling a bit of tightness at the corners of your mouth.
Jing Yuan runs his thumb across your lower lip again, feeling the plush give of it under his touch. A pleased smile graces his face at the expression on your face. “Perfect form,” he praises. “Do you wish to try the flute again?”
A shuddering breath escapes your lips, tickling the pad of his thumb that he has yet to move. “Yes, please.”
You turn around in his lap, a bit relieved to escape his observant gaze. But perhaps the heat of his chest at your back and his hand returning to your belly is not much better either.
“Remember to breathe from your stomach,” he says, as his arms settle around you to bring the flute to your lips once again.
This time, as your lower lip finds the curved surface of the flute, the shape of your mouth feels more relaxed and natural. You draw in a breath, slowly and deeply, stomach expanding. There’s a moment of pause, lungs at full capacity–
Then you blow. A thin stream of air rushes through your lips, passing over the embouchure hole and filling the barrel of the instrument, culminating in a bright, steady note that sings in the quiet of the afternoon air. You blow for as long as there is air in your lungs, pulling away from the flute when the note fades away.
For a few moments, the two of you sit in the newly fallen silence.
Then, eyes glimmering, you stand and turn, throwing yourself back into Jing Yuan’s arms. He catches the weight of you easily, arm strong behind your back as he holds you against him. He sets his flute down and helps adjust your legs so you sit on his thighs, keeping you steady as you pull back to look at him.
“I did it!” Your expression is radiant, pure excitement shining through.
Pride and affection laces his voice, all warm and rich like the honey-gold of his eyes. “Very well done. You’re a fast learner.”
“I have a great teacher,” you say cheekily.
“If you wish to continue your lessons, that can be arranged.”
A smile of delight spreads across your face. “I’d like that. Thank you, Jing Yuan.”
He dips his head, eyes creasing as he smiles too. “You’re very welcome. Now, I still have some time before my next engagement. Would you like to play some more?”
“Yes!”
You settle back into his lap, his chest strong and broad behind you. Jing Yuan picks up his flute and wraps his arms around you, holding up the instrument yet again.
The afternoon passes with you blowing long streams of air into the flute as his fingers move to change the notes. Your combined efforts send melodies spiraling through the air, sweet and easygoing. Sometimes the songs are broken up by mistakes that lead to even sweeter sounds of laughter, or fade into thoughtful conversation and teasing remarks, winding together to create the beautiful melody of an intimate afternoon spent between lovers.