Work Text:
Zhao Shaoshang devoted exactly as much attention to his appearance as the situation required.
At least, that was what he claimed, and if anyone had little enough sense to question that opinion in his presence, Shaoshang was fully prepared to deliver a long, logical, and extremely convincing argument about the importance of first impressions, the social function of clothing, the relationship between a person's position and the way he ought to present himself, and the simple decency of not leaving the house looking as though one had dressed in the dark, during a fire, with one's eyes closed. All of these were reasonable arguments. True ones. Supported by years of observing society. Shaoshang therefore saw nothing unusual in spending a certain amount of time in front of his wardrobe every morning, considering the available options. Every sensible person did the same. Perhaps not everyone owned six trunks of clothes, a separate box for hairpins, three racks for fans, and a servant who for the past several weeks had begun each day wearing the expression of a man walking to his execution, but those were merely details resulting from differences in social standing, not proof of any kind of excess.
If anyone asked Zhao Waner, however, the answer would be entirely different.
Fortunately, no one was asking Zhao Waner.
Yet.
Shaoshang had long believed that his older sister had an exceptionally unpleasant tendency to jump to conclusions, especially when it came to him, his behavior, his habits, or any tiny eccentricity Waner, for some incomprehensible reason, considered interesting enough to mention over breakfast, lunch, dinner, during a family gathering, or in conversation with a man Shaoshang had met for the first time in his life and would probably never see again. Waner was capable of revealing a ten-year-old family secret simply because someone asked whether her brother liked the color blue. She could not be trusted with delicate matters. And certainly not with matters requiring discretion, good judgment, and scientific impartiality.
That was precisely why Shaoshang had never told her that he had been conducting research for the past few weeks.
Of course, he did not call it research.
Research required methodology, preparation, observation, recording results, and making adjustments based on previous trials, while Shaoshang was merely doing what every normal, sensible man did while getting ready to leave the house in the morning.
He stood in front of the wardrobe.
He looked at his clothes.
He chose the appropriate ones.
And if the process currently took an average of one hour and thirteen minutes, whereas two months earlier it had taken twenty at most, that was nobody's business.
And it certainly had nothing to do with Yuan Hong.
Almost nothing.
Perhaps a little.
Shaoshang narrowed his eyes at the three sets of clothes laid out before him on the bed, then shifted his gaze to his reflection in the tall mirror and tilted his head slightly. The light coming through the window was still soft, morning light, but bright enough for him to see the shade of the fabric clearly and the way each color worked with his complexion. His servant stood several steps away, hands folded in front of him, wearing the face of a man who had learned one very important thing over the past three weeks: asking the young master questions about his wardrobe only led to answers one did not actually want to know.
Shaoshang appreciated that quality in him very much.
It was rare.
Most people asked far too many questions and then had the audacity not to accept the answers.
"That one."
Without a word, the servant moved toward the pale-blue robe.
Shaoshang grimaced immediately.
"No, not that one."
The man stopped with his hand a few inches from the fabric. He did not even sigh. Shaoshang had trained him very well indeed.
"This one?"
This time he indicated the light-gray set.
Shaoshang examined it critically. The gray was elegant, the fabric excellent, the embroidery discreet enough not to look excessive while still expensive enough that any man in possession of functioning eyes would understand he was looking at someone who did not buy his clothes from the first stall at the market.
Everything about it was appropriate.
Unfortunately, the last time Shaoshang had worn gray, Yuan Hong had asked whether he was feeling unwell.
"Not that one either."
The servant looked toward the final set.
The dark-green robe had a simple cut, but the fabric was high quality, soft and heavy, which made it fall over the body far better than many of the more ornate things Shaoshang owned. The embroidery at the collar was subtle, barely visible, done in thread only a shade darker than the fabric itself. No gold. No costly decorations that could be noticed from the other end of the street. Nothing that might suggest Young Master Zhao had spent nearly an hour considering what to wear.
Shaoshang studied the robe.
Then his reflection.
Then the robe again.
"Yes."
The servant nodded and reached for it.
"No. Wait."
He stopped.
Shaoshang stepped closer and ran his fingers over the embroidery at the collar, feeling the slight unevenness of the thread beneath his fingertips. Yuan Hong liked simplicity. Not that Shaoshang had been conducting observations on the subject. He had merely noticed. It was difficult not to notice, because Yuan Hong wore clothes exactly the way he did almost everything else: without unnecessary effort, without ornament, and without the slightest attempt to draw attention to himself. Dark colors. Good fabrics. Simple cuts. Everything practical, orderly, and suited to a man who looked as though even in his sleep he remained ready to leap out of bed, reach for a weapon, and solve a murder.
Or commit one, if the situation required it.
Shaoshang personally considered that a very sad way to live.
A person could not spend all his time looking as though he had just stepped out to interrogate a suspect.
The world had colors.
There were silks. Embroideries. Hairpins. Fans. Jade. Silver. Patterns. There were hundreds of ways to demonstrate to other people that one possessed both eyes and good taste, and Shaoshang considered ignoring ninety-nine percent of them almost a personal insult to the craftsmen who had devoted their lives to creating them.
Yuan Hong ignored ninety-nine percent.
But that one percent...
Shaoshang tilted his head.
Three days earlier, he had worn a similar dark-green robe.
Yuan Hong had looked at him.
Blinked twice in quick succession.
Only then had he greeted him.
There was, of course, nothing unusual about that. Yuan Hong looked at him often. Usually when Shaoshang said something exceptionally sensible, exceptionally unreasonable, or did something that, according to Yuan Hong, demonstrated a complete lack of self-preservation. Those three categories covered most of the time they spent together.
That look, however, had been different.
It had lasted almost three seconds.
Three.
Shaoshang had counted.
Not because he cared.
He simply had an excellent memory.
Besides, Yuan Hong had adjusted his collar later.
For no reason at all.
He had said the fabric was folded over, but Shaoshang was absolutely certain it had not been. He paid attention to his clothes not only before leaving the house but throughout the day. He knew when something was wrong. The collar had lain perfectly. Yuan Hong had nevertheless reached out, brushed his fingers along Shaoshang's neck, adjusted something that had not needed adjusting, and then immediately stepped away and returned to his conversation with Yang Dezhi as though he had not just made Shaoshang completely forget what he had been saying for the next ten minutes.
Which meant dark green required further testing.
"That one."
The servant lifted the robe.
"With the green hairpin?"
Shaoshang considered it.
"No."
"The jade one?"
"No."
"The gold one?"
Shaoshang looked at him with the kind of outrage one might display if someone had just suggested tying a dead rat into his hair.
"Of course not."
Silence fell.
Shaoshang sighed heavily and turned toward the box.
"The black one."
The servant looked at him.
Shaoshang noticed immediately.
"What?"
"Nothing, young master."
"You're looking."
"I'm looking at the hairpins."
"You're not looking at the hairpins. You're looking at me."
The man lowered his gaze.
"Forgive me."
Shaoshang huffed and took out the small black hairpin himself, turning it between his fingers. It was exceptionally simple. Almost entirely unadorned. He had bought it two weeks earlier.
By accident.
Entirely by accident.
He had seen it at the market and thought it would suit several of his new robes.
The fact that it strongly resembled the hairpin Yuan Hong wore meant absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
Shaoshang sat down in front of the mirror and handed it to the servant.
"Don't look like that."
"I'm not looking, young master."
"You are."
"Forgive me."
The entire process took another forty minutes.
Not because Shaoshang was vain.
He was thorough.
Thoroughness was a virtue.
Yuan Hong himself had said many times that details mattered.
+++
Yuan Hong noticed the robe.
Shaoshang knew he had noticed before he even sat down, because Yuan Hong's gaze moved from his face to his collar, paused there for a fraction of a second, traveled lower over the dark-green fabric, and only then returned to the document lying on the desk. It all happened without the slightest change in his expression. Someone less observant might even have concluded that Yuan Hong had not been looking at him at all. Shaoshang, however, was not someone less observant. Shaoshang had eyes, a memory, and for the past three weeks far too many reasons to know every smallest change in Yuan Hong's behavior.
Two seconds.
Less than last time.
He sat down across from him and opened his fan.
Interesting.
Perhaps the shade was too dark. Or the hairpin. The black hairpin might have made the whole thing look too severe. Alternatively, the embroidery could be the problem. The previous robe had had a slightly more open collar and—
Yuan Hong looked up from the documents.
"What?"
Shaoshang blinked.
"Nothing."
"You're looking at me."
"You looked first."
One of Yuan Hong's eyebrows rose.
Shaoshang smiled broadly.
For a brief moment, Yuan Hong simply looked at him, then returned to the documents.
Shaoshang began fanning himself a little faster.
Insufficient data.
Today's trial was inconclusive.
He could not draw conclusions based on a single observation.
That would be irresponsible.
+++
The next day, he chose pale blue.
Yuan Hong looked once.
For a long time.
Shaoshang remembered.
The day after that, he wore a white set with blue embroidery that he personally liked enough that, even before leaving the house, he was almost certain it would be a success. The fabric was light, falling perfectly with every movement, and the embroidery brought out the color of his eyes. Shaoshang knew he looked good. His servant said he looked good. Even his father looked up from breakfast and asked whether he was going to some kind of reception.
Yuan Hong looked twice.
The second time, he frowned.
That very evening, the white robe with blue embroidery was moved to the very bottom of the wardrobe.
Not thrown away.
Shaoshang was not insane.
It had been expensive.
The next day, he chose gray.
Yuan Hong saw him in front of the station, stopped, and immediately asked:
"Are you feeling unwell?"
Shaoshang stood in complete silence for several seconds.
"No."
Yuan Hong looked at him more closely.
"You're pale."
"My face always looks like this."
"Not always."
That evening, Shaoshang returned home, went into his dressing room, and personally pointed out the gray set to his servant.
"I don't want to see this again."
"Young master?"
"I look ill in it."
The servant looked at him carefully.
"Young master does not look ill."
"Captain Yuan thinks otherwise."
Silence fell.
Shaoshang slowly turned his head.
The servant was staring at the floor.
"I heard nothing."
"And you'd better keep it that way."
The gray robe was ultimately removed from the list.
The following day, Shaoshang appeared in dark blue. Yuan Hong said nothing, which Shaoshang initially found disappointing, until they left the station together and stepped out onto a crowded street. People pushed between the stalls, someone was guiding a cart piled with vegetables, a carriage was approaching from the other side, and Shaoshang was in the middle of explaining to Yuan Hong why his theory about one of the witnesses was considerably more sensible than everything the police had established over the previous two days when Yuan Hong's hand came to rest against his back.
There was nothing unusual about that.
Yuan Hong sometimes did it in crowds.
This time, however, his hand stayed there a few seconds longer.
Warm.
Steady.
Spread exactly between his shoulder blades.
Shaoshang stopped in the middle of a sentence.
Yuan Hong looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You stopped talking."
"Am I not allowed to stop talking sometimes?"
"You are."
Yuan Hong's tone suggested the phenomenon was rare enough to warrant reporting to the Academy of Sciences.
Shaoshang huffed, stepped sideways, and nearly walked straight into a cabbage stall.
Yuan Hong caught him by the arm.
That was the second instance of physical contact.
Dark blue received the highest score.
+++
After three weeks, Shaoshang had a problem.
A serious one.
A dangerous one.
Possibly an unsolvable one.
He had too much data.
That evening, he sat at the desk in his room with a sheet of paper spread out before him, frowning with the intensity of a man trying to solve a serial murder case rather than determine why Yuan Hong had looked at his neck twice while Shaoshang was wearing a burgundy robe.
Some reactions were obvious.
Others made no sense whatsoever.
Sometimes Yuan Hong looked longer at light colors. Sometimes at dark ones. Green performed well, but only in certain shades. Gray had been eliminated entirely, although Shaoshang still believed he looked very elegant in it. White produced inconsistent results. Black made Yuan Hong look far too often, but Shaoshang was unsure whether that was because he approved of it or simply because Shaoshang did not wear black very often. Burgundy had produced one adjustment of his sleeve, one touch to the elbow, and a comment about the weather that probably meant nothing, although Shaoshang spent two days wondering whether Yuan Hong had been suggesting the fabric was too thin.
Cream proved the most problematic.
Yuan Hong spent half the day completely ignoring an exceptionally beautiful cream-colored set, causing Shaoshang to begin suspecting that the entire experiment was heading in the wrong direction, only to look at him that evening, as they were preparing to leave, and say:
"Don't wear that tomorrow."
Shaoshang nearly choked on his tea.
"What?"
"That robe."
"Why?"
Yuan Hong looked at him as if the answer were obvious.
"It gets dirty."
That was all.
Shaoshang returned home and spent an hour sitting in front of the cream-colored robe, trying to decide whether the comment had been positive, negative, or entirely neutral. If it was negative, why did Yuan Hong care whether it got dirty? If it was positive, why had he told Shaoshang not to wear it? Did he think Shaoshang was careless? Was he worried he would ruin the fabric? Did he like the color? Did he not? Was this even about the color? Did Yuan Hong simply dislike cream? Or had he noticed a stain Shaoshang had somehow missed, which was absolutely impossible, because Shaoshang noticed stains.
For the first time since beginning his research, he felt genuine doubt.
He was an intelligent man.
A very intelligent man.
He solved mysteries the police could not solve. He understood people. He saw connections between things that seemed completely unrelated to everyone else. He could walk into a room and, within minutes, notice who was lying, who was afraid of something, and who had just hidden something in their left pocket.
He could not determine which color Yuan Hong liked.
It was humiliating.
Even more humiliating was what he did next.
He went to Waner.
+++
Waner was sitting at a small table embroidering when the door to her room opened and Shaoshang stepped inside wearing the expression of a man who had come to inform her of a death in the family.
He closed the door behind him.
Waner did not look up.
"No."
Shaoshang frowned.
"I haven't said anything yet."
"No."
"You don't know what I want to ask."
"I know you."
"Waner."
"No."
"It's serious."
This time she sighed, pushed the needle into the fabric, and finally looked at her younger brother. Shaoshang was still standing by the door. For a moment, he looked as if he were seriously considering fleeing, which immediately caught her interest, because Shaoshang rarely ran from anything, and conversation least of all. Usually, conversation was his favorite weapon.
"Fine. What did you do?"
"Nothing."
"What do you want to do?"
"Nothing."
"What did someone else do?"
"No one did anything."
Waner narrowed her eyes.
Shaoshang sighed and sat down across from her.
For a moment, he gathered his thoughts.
"Which color brings out my eyes best?"
Waner stared at him.
Shaoshang stared at Waner.
The silence lasted several seconds.
Then Waner very slowly pulled the needle out of the fabric and set it on the table.
"Oh."
Shaoshang immediately pointed a finger at her.
"No."
"Oh."
"Don't do that."
"Oh-ho."
"Waner."
The corners of her mouth began to curve into a smile.
Shaoshang felt the first icy shiver of realization that he had just made a mistake.
A serious one.
Possibly the greatest of his life.
"Yuan Hong?"
"No."
"I haven't said anything yet."
"You said his name."
"Because this is about Yuan Hong."
"No."
"Shaoshang."
"Waner."
"Shaoshang."
"Waner."
They stared at each other.
Shaoshang lasted perhaps three seconds.
Waner won.
Of course she won. She was his older sister. She knew all of his weaknesses, remembered every embarrassing moment from his childhood, and possessed that intolerable ability to stare at him long enough that he began feeling the need to confess to things he had not even done.
"How long?"
Shaoshang folded his arms across his chest.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"How long have you been dressing for Yuan Hong?"
Shaoshang looked deeply offended.
"I do not dress for Yuan Hong."
Waner looked at him.
Shaoshang held her gaze.
Three seconds.
Then he sighed.
"A few weeks."
Waner covered her mouth with one hand.
"Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing."
She was laughing.
A lot.
Shaoshang sat with his arms folded and waited for his own sister to finish destroying what remained of his dignity. It took far too long. At one point, Waner had to wipe the corner of her eye, which Shaoshang considered a personal insult.
"If you're finished..."
"I'm sorry." She took a breath. "Truly. I'm sorry. It's just..." She looked at him and burst out laughing again. "What exactly are you doing?"
Shaoshang answered with the dignity of a man presenting the results of an extremely important investigation.
"Testing."
Waner started laughing again.
"Waner."
"I'm sorry. Testing what?"
"His reactions."
The laughter stopped.
Waner looked at him.
This time, really looked.
"You're actually doing this."
"Of course."
"Every day?"
"Most days."
"How?"
He was prepared for that question.
Shaoshang reached beneath his robe and pulled out a carefully folded sheet of paper.
Waner looked at the paper.
Then at him.
Then back at the paper.
Shaoshang unfolded the sheet on the table.
There were columns.
Dates.
Colors.
Type of fabric.
Hairpin.
Embroidery.
Fan.
Length of Yuan Hong's first look.
Number of subsequent looks.
Comments.
Physical contact.
Additional notes.
Waner read for a long moment.
Shaoshang waited, increasingly pleased with himself, because no matter how much she had laughed before, she now surely had to appreciate the quality of his work.
At last, she raised her head.
"Physical contact?"
"It's a relevant variable."
Waner closed her eyes.
"Shaoshang."
"What?"
"You are keeping records of how many times Yuan Hong touches you depending on the color of your clothes."
"Don't oversimplify."
"It cannot be made any more complicated."
Shaoshang pointed at one of the columns.
"Look. Dark blue."
Waner looked.
"Three instances of physical contact."
"Exactly."
"One of them says: moved me out of the path of an oncoming cart."
"He touched me."
"Because you were nearly run over."
"That does not change the fact."
Waner rested her forehead against one hand and, for a moment, looked like a woman seriously reconsidering every decision that had brought her to this point in life.
"You know you could simply ask Yuan Hong what color he likes."
Shaoshang looked at her with genuine horror.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because then he'll know."
Waner slowly straightened.
"What?"
Shaoshang opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Waner began to smile.
"What exactly is he supposed to know, Shaoshang?"
"Nothing."
"That you want him to like how you look?"
"I didn't say that."
"That you care whether he looks at you?"
"I didn't say that either."
"That you spend an hour every day choosing clothes just to see whether Yuan Hong looks for one second longer?"
Shaoshang said nothing.
And that silence, more than all the tables, columns, and three weeks of absurd experimentation, told Waner everything.
Her smile changed.
It softened.
"That's adorable."
Shaoshang jerked his head up.
"It is not adorable."
"It is."
"It's science."
"It's courtship."
"It's analysis."
"It's courtship."
"I am not courting him."
Waner looked at the table.
Then at her brother.
"You have a column titled physical contact."
"That proves nothing."
"You wrote down that he touched your collar for approximately four seconds."
"Three and a half."
Waner closed her eyes.
Shaoshang realized his mistake one second too late.
"Forget I said that."
"No."
"Waner."
"Never."
Shaoshang groaned and covered his face with one hand while his sister laughed again, though much more quietly this time. Only after a moment did Waner lean over the table and begin actually analyzing it. Shaoshang watched her through his fingers. This was humiliating. Horrible. He should never have asked her for help.
"Pale blue."
He lowered his hands.
"What about it?"
"Longest look."
Shaoshang immediately straightened.
"I knew it."
"But dark blue has the most contact."
"I noticed that too."
Waner frowned.
Shaoshang leaned over the table.
They both stared at the chart.
"Combine them."
Shaoshang froze.
"What?"
"Pale blue underneath. Darker robe on top."
Shaoshang stared at her.
Waner stared at him.
They both understood at the same time.
That was the solution.
+++
The next morning, Zhao Shaoshang's dressing room looked like the staging ground for a military operation.
Waner appeared after breakfast.
Shaoshang initially insisted he did not need her.
Fifteen minutes later, they stood side by side in front of the bed, upon which four different shades of blue had been laid out.
"That one."
"Too light."
"It isn't too light."
"With that fabric, it is."
"Shaoshang, you asked me to help."
"I asked for your opinion. I did not surrender control of my life to you."
Waner looked at him.
Shaoshang pointed to the third set.
"That one."
"Too much embroidery."
He fell silent.
Looked at the embroidery.
Looked at Waner.
"You're right."
"I know."
"Don't get used to it."
In the end, they chose a dark-blue robe with a lighter collar visible beneath it. The cut was elegant, but simpler than the things Shaoshang usually chose for himself. He fastened his hair with a silver hairpin instead of a jade one. No gold. No excessive ornaments. The fan was pale, almost white.
Waner made him take off one ring.
Shaoshang refused.
Waner removed it herself.
"Waner."
"Too much."
"It's one ring."
"You're still wearing two."
"Three rings is not a lot."
"For Yuan Hong, anything above one is probably extravagance."
Shaoshang looked at his hands.
After a moment, he took off the second one.
Waner said nothing.
That was worse than laughter.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you think this is adorable."
"I do."
"I'm going to stop talking to you."
"You can't."
Unfortunately, that was true.
When he finally stood in front of the mirror, he said nothing for a moment himself. He looked good. He knew that. He did not need Yuan Hong, Waner, or anyone else to tell him. He knew what he looked like; knew which features he had inherited from his mother and which from his father, knew that people turned their heads to look at him and that compliments had followed him since he was old enough to understand what they meant. They had never particularly embarrassed him. Appearance was appearance. Shaoshang liked beautiful things and saw no reason to pretend he did not also like looking beautiful himself.
This time, however, as he looked at his reflection, he felt something entirely different.
He was not wondering whether he looked good.
He was wondering whether Yuan Hong would think he looked good.
And that one small difference was so unbearably embarrassing that Shaoshang immediately turned away from the mirror.
"I'm leaving."
Waner smiled.
"Good luck."
"I don't need luck."
"Of course."
"This is not courtship."
"Of course."
"Stop it."
"I'm not saying anything."
Shaoshang left.
Only once he was out on the street did he realize his heart was beating a little faster than it should.
Absurd.
+++
Yuan Hong made a mistake.
A very small one.
So small that probably no one except Zhao Shaoshang would have been able to notice it.
But Shaoshang noticed everything.
He walked into Yuan Hong's office without knocking, as he had been doing for long enough that the secretary in the corridor no longer even tried to stop him, and closed the door behind him. Yuan Hong sat behind the desk, bent over a document. He looked up.
And stopped.
Not for one second.
Not for two.
For a long time.
Yuan Hong's gaze found his face first, then moved to the pale collar, lower over the dark-blue fabric, returned to his face, paused somewhere around his hair and the silver hairpin, and only then did Yuan Hong apparently remember that he was holding a document in his hand.
Shaoshang felt a surge of triumph so pure and violent that he nearly laughed.
Yes.
It worked.
Waner was a genius.
He was never going to tell her that.
Ever.
Yuan Hong very slowly set the document down.
"What?"
Shaoshang asked with an innocent expression.
Yuan Hong was still looking.
"Nothing."
Shaoshang walked to the chair across from the desk and sat down, making sure every movement looked completely natural. He opened his fan.
Yuan Hong was still looking.
Shaoshang had to use every ounce of self-control not to smile.
"New clothes?"
Shaoshang raised his eyebrows.
"This?"
He looked down at his own robe as though he had only just remembered it existed.
"I don't know. Possibly."
Yuan Hong narrowed his eyes.
Shaoshang fanned himself calmly.
It was one of the most difficult things he had ever done in his life.
Yuan Hong looked him over once more.
"Nice."
The fan stopped.
Shaoshang almost forgot to breathe.
Yuan Hong returned to the documents.
That was all.
One word.
Nice.
Shaoshang sat completely still for several seconds, feeling all the triumph with which he had entered the room suddenly dissolve into something much softer, warmer, and decidedly less comfortable. Carefully, he ran his fingers along the edge of the fan.
"Really?"
The question slipped out more quietly than he had intended.
Yuan Hong looked up.
"Yes."
Shaoshang felt heat at the back of his neck.
This was absurd.
He was a grown man. He had heard compliments all his life. People praised his appearance, his clothes, his family, his knowledge, his talent, the way he spoke, his eyes, his hair, his hands, and probably several other things he no longer remembered. Some meant it sincerely. Most wanted something. The Zhao name had that peculiar quality of making people suddenly discover an extraordinary number of admirable traits in those who carried it.
It had never mattered much.
One dry "nice" spoken by Yuan Hong should not have mattered more than dozens of far more poetic compliments.
And yet it did.
Perhaps because Yuan Hong did not say things without reason.
He did not praise people to please them. He did not pretend to be interested. He did not need Shaoshang's money, his father's name, or his family's connections. At times, he even seemed to forget that he was supposed to behave differently toward a minister's son than toward any other irritating person who walked into his office without knocking.
If Yuan Hong said "nice," he probably truly meant it.
And Shaoshang suddenly, to his own horror, realized that this was what the whole thing had been about all along.
He had not wanted to find the best color.
He had not wanted to prove any theory.
He wanted Yuan Hong to look at him.
He wanted to enter a room and see that tiny pause between one of Yuan Hong's breaths and the next. He wanted the man who usually controlled every reaction to sometimes forget that control because of him. He wanted to know that when he spent an absurd amount of time in front of the mirror every morning choosing a hairpin, collar, and shade of fabric, there was someone specific on the other side of all of it.
Yuan Hong.
Only Yuan Hong.
It was awful.
It was terrifying.
It was—
Adorable.
Shaoshang immediately hated Waner even more.
He lowered the fan.
Yuan Hong was looking again.
This time without pretending otherwise.
Shaoshang smiled because he could not help himself.
"What?"
Yuan Hong sighed.
"Nothing."
"You're looking again."
"So are you."
"I look at you all the time."
Yuan Hong went still.
So did Shaoshang.
The words had left his mouth faster than he could think them through or stop them.
Silence fell.
Shaoshang felt the heat at the back of his neck rise all the way to his ears.
He could fix this.
He absolutely could fix this.
All he had to do was say something sensible. Make a joke. Change the subject. Point out that, as a consultant, he had to observe the police captain. Say that Yuan Hong had a very interesting face. No. That was worse. Say anything else.
Yuan Hong very slowly leaned back in his chair.
"I noticed."
Zhao Shaoshang's soul left his body.
"What?"
One of Yuan Hong's eyebrows lifted slightly.
Shaoshang suddenly became very interested in his fan.
Extremely.
Fans were fascinating.
Their construction.
The paper.
The wood.
Truly fascinating objects.
"For the past few weeks."
Shaoshang stopped breathing.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Different clothes every day."
Shaoshang's fingers tightened around the fan.
"I own a great many clothes."
"I know."
"Of course I wear something different every day."
"Every day you check whether I noticed."
Shaoshang fell silent.
Yuan Hong continued in the same calm tone that Shaoshang was beginning to find exceptionally offensive at the moment.
"When I don't react, you change the color the next day."
Shaoshang very slowly raised his gaze.
Yuan Hong looked calm.
Too calm.
"You..." Shaoshang hesitated. "You knew?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"The second day."
Shaoshang stared at him.
"The second?"
"Yes."
"The second day?"
"Repeating the question will not change the answer."
Shaoshang felt betrayed.
Deeply.
Personally.
He would probably never trust anyone again.
"Then why didn't you say anything?"
Yuan Hong looked at him.
And then, to Shaoshang's absolute horror, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Slightly.
Almost invisibly.
But it twitched.
"I was curious how long you would keep doing it."
Shaoshang stood up.
"Yuan Hong."
"Shaoshang."
"You..."
He could not find the right word.
There were too many.
Devious. Treacherous. Horrible. Shameless. Manipulative. Conscienceless.
Yuan Hong looked at him calmly.
And Shaoshang suddenly realized something even worse.
Yuan Hong had been toying with him.
For three weeks.
Knowingly.
Deliberately.
He had let Shaoshang change clothes, hairpins, colors, and fans. Let him analyze every glance. He had probably deliberately looked longer sometimes and shorter at others. Shaoshang remembered the cream-colored robe.
"You did that on purpose."
Yuan Hong did not even try to pretend he did not understand.
"What?"
"'It gets dirty.'"
This time, the smile was a little more visible.
Shaoshang made an indignant sound and pointed his fan at him.
"You are a terrible person."
"Possibly."
"And insidious."
Yuan Hong nodded.
"And devious."
"I'm a policeman."
"That is not an excuse."
Shaoshang turned sharply away.
He did not know where he was going. Probably home. Probably to burn the chart, leave Beijing, and begin a new life under another name somewhere no one had ever heard of Yuan Hong.
He took two steps.
"Shaoshang."
He stopped.
He did not turn around.
For a moment, all he heard behind him was the rustle of paper.
Then Yuan Hong sighed.
"This one is the best."
Shaoshang looked back over his shoulder.
Yuan Hong indicated his clothes.
"This combination."
Shaoshang said nothing.
"Pale and dark blue?"
"Yes."
Embarrassment fought with curiosity inside him.
Curiosity won.
Of course.
"And the hairpin?"
Yuan Hong looked at his hair.
"Silver."
Shaoshang felt treacherous warmth in his cheeks.
"Fan?"
"That one is good."
"Embroidery?"
"None."
Shaoshang slowly turned to face him fully.
Yuan Hong returned to the documents.
"You can tell Waner she was right."
Shaoshang opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"How do you know Waner..."
Yuan Hong did not answer.
Shaoshang stared at him.
Then he understood.
Of course.
Of course he had noticed.
Shaoshang started laughing.
He had not meant to. He was still humiliated. He still intended to take revenge on Yuan Hong in a way that would probably require several weeks of preparation and the assistance of at least two corrupt officials. He still could not believe he had spent three weeks maintaining a chart for a man who had known about the experiment since the second day.
But he could not help it.
He returned to the chair and sat down, still laughing under his breath.
"I can't stand you."
"I know."
Shaoshang opened his fan.
"Really since the second day?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Yuan Hong spent a moment writing something in the document.
"The first day, you looked at me when you came in."
"I always do that."
"The second day, you looked at me, then at your clothes, then back at me."
Shaoshang fell silent.
"The third day, you did the same."
"That proves nothing."
"You stopped wearing gray after I asked whether you were ill."
Shaoshang narrowed his eyes.
Yuan Hong set down the pen.
"And the white robe with blue embroidery."
"You frowned."
"Because you had a thread on your shoulder."
Shaoshang went still.
"What?"
"A loose thread."
Shaoshang stared at him in disbelief.
"I put that robe at the bottom of my wardrobe."
Yuan Hong said nothing.
"Because of you."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Shaoshang pointed the fan at him again.
"Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing."
"You are."
"No."
"Yuan Hong."
"Shaoshang."
"Don't say my name in that tone."
"What tone?"
"That one."
Yuan Hong apparently decided that further conversation was pointless, because he slid a small plate of sweets toward him.
Shaoshang looked at him.
Then at the plate.
Then at him again.
He took one.
That did not mean forgiveness.
It merely meant that good sweets should not be wasted because of a personal conflict.
For the next several minutes, Yuan Hong worked while Shaoshang sat across from him, ate, and tried to recover the remnants of his dignity. He should have felt terrible. In fact, he did feel terrible. Whenever he thought about the chart hidden in his room, he wanted to die.
But beneath the embarrassment was something else.
Something light.
Warm.
Yuan Hong knew.
He knew that Shaoshang wanted him to like what he saw.
And he had not pulled away.
He had not grown colder. Had not pretended not to understand. Had not used that knowledge to put a safe distance between them.
Quite the opposite.
For three weeks, he had watched.
And now he had told Shaoshang which color he liked best.
Shaoshang bit into a piece of candy to hide his smile.
His leg accidentally brushed Yuan Hong's beneath the desk.
He stopped.
He could move away.
He did not.
Neither did Yuan Hong.
Shaoshang lowered his gaze to the document in front of Yuan Hong, although of course he could not see a single character. All of his attention had suddenly narrowed to the small place beneath the desk where their knees touched.
Physical contact.
He should add it to the chart.
Definitely.
Dark blue: four.
No.
Five, if he counted—
Shaoshang cut off his own thought.
Waner should never see that particular column.
Ever.
Yuan Hong looked up from the documents.
His gaze settled on Shaoshang.
Again.
This time Shaoshang did not count the seconds.
He did not need to.
"What?"
Yuan Hong shook his head.
"Nothing."
Shaoshang smiled.
He would wear blue again tomorrow.
Perhaps the day after that too.
After all, if the research was producing results, there was no reason to stop it.
Science required sacrifices.
And Zhao Shaoshang had always been willing to sacrifice himself for science.
Especially if Yuan Hong intended to keep looking.
+++
The next morning, Shaoshang spent one hour and twenty-seven minutes in his dressing room.
It was not his fault.
The situation had changed.
Previously, he had possessed only observational data. Now he had direct confirmation from the subject, which meant the entire methodology required reassessment. This was an entirely different phase of the experiment.
The servant stood beside the bed.
Five blue robes lay on it.
Shaoshang looked at them with his arms folded across his chest.
"That one."
The servant reached for the dark-blue one.
"No."
He stopped.
"This one?"
"No."
The next one.
"No."
The man lowered his hands.
"Young master."
"What?"
"Captain Yuan already said which one he likes."
Shaoshang very slowly turned his head.
The servant immediately understood his mistake.
"Forgive me."
Shaoshang continued staring at him for another moment.
"How do you know?"
Silence.
"What?"
"How do you know what Captain Yuan said?"
The servant went pale.
Shaoshang narrowed his eyes.
"I only told..."
"Whom?"
"I didn't..."
"Whom?"
"The young lady asked."
Shaoshang closed his eyes.
Of course.
Of course she had asked.
"Waner."
The servant took one step back.
Shaoshang headed for the door.
"Young master, the clothes..."
"Murder first."
He did not manage to leave the room, however, because at that exact moment familiar laughter sounded from behind the door.
Shaoshang froze.
The door opened.
Waner stepped inside.
"Apparently the silver hairpin."
Shaoshang stared at her.
Waner smiled brightly.
"Get out."
"I came to help."
"I don't need help."
"Five robes on the bed suggest otherwise."
"Get out."
Waner walked over to the bed and began examining the clothes.
"This one."
"No."
"It's exactly the same combination as yesterday."
"I can't wear exactly the same thing."
"Why?"
Shaoshang looked at her as if she had just asked why people needed air.
"Because I wore it yesterday."
"And?"
"And Yuan Hong saw it yesterday."
"And said he liked it."
"Which is exactly why I can't wear it."
Waner blinked.
"I don't understand."
Shaoshang sighed with the patience of a man forced to explain something obvious to a child.
"If I wear it again the day after he said he liked it, he'll know I wore it because he said he liked it."
Waner said nothing.
Shaoshang pointed a finger at her.
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
Waner started laughing.
Shaoshang turned toward the mirror.
That was precisely the worst part.
Yesterday, the situation had seemed simpler. Yuan Hong knew. Shaoshang had survived the discovery. The world had not ended. Theoretically, then, they could stop pretending the experiment did not exist.
Except now everything was worse.
Because before, Shaoshang had been able to deceive himself.
Today, as he chose a blue robe, he knew exactly why he was choosing it.
He wanted Yuan Hong to look.
Again.
He wanted to see that brief pause in the movement of his hand. He wanted that one additional glance. He wanted the dry "nice" that he had carried with him for the rest of yesterday like something warm tucked beneath his ribs.
It was pathetic.
Humiliating.
And worst of all, Waner knew all of it.
"That one."
Shaoshang looked at the robe she was indicating.
It was not the same one.
Only very similar.
Dark blue. Lighter collar. Slightly different cut.
Shaoshang narrowed his eyes.
"Maybe."
Waner smiled.
"And the silver hairpin."
"Don't overdo it."
"He said himself that he likes the silver one."
Shaoshang felt heat reach his ears.
"I know."
"Oh."
"Waner."
"I'm not saying anything."
"Get out."
"I'm already leaving."
She stopped by the door.
Shaoshang knew.
He knew she was going to say something.
He did not turn around.
"Shaoshang?"
"No."
"You look very nice."
He clenched his jaw.
"Waner."
"Yuan Hong will think so too."
A pillow flew across the room.
Waner managed to close the door in time.
Her laughter could still be heard in the corridor.
Shaoshang stood in the middle of the dressing room, staring at the closed door.
Then at his reflection.
Then at the blue robe.
He sighed.
"That one."
The servant approached the bed.
"Silver hairpin?"
Shaoshang looked at him.
The man froze.
Shaoshang looked away.
"...Silver."
The servant nodded.
He did not smile.
Shaoshang appreciated his survival instinct.
+++
Yuan Hong looked.
Of course he did.
This time only once, but long enough.
Shaoshang sat down across from him.
"Aren't you going to say anything?"
Yuan Hong set down his pen.
"About what?"
Shaoshang opened his fan.
"I don't know."
"Then neither do I."
Shaoshang narrowed his eyes.
Yuan Hong went back to work.
A minute passed.
Then another.
Shaoshang fanned himself faster and faster.
Yuan Hong kept writing.
Shaoshang shifted in his chair.
Yuan Hong turned the page.
Shaoshang lasted another thirty seconds.
"Really? Nothing?"
The pen stopped.
Yuan Hong raised his head.
His gaze traveled slowly over Shaoshang from his hair down to his collar.
Shaoshang immediately felt warmth spread beneath his skin.
"Nice."
One word.
Again.
Shaoshang pressed his lips together, trying to hide a smile.
He failed.
Yuan Hong saw it.
Of course he did.
"Satisfied?"
Shaoshang immediately adopted an offended expression.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Naturally."
"I'm only asking."
"Naturally."
"Stop repeating that."
Yuan Hong returned to the documents.
Shaoshang sat across from him, pretending to be interested in his own fan.
After a moment, he felt something against his leg.
He looked down.
Yuan Hong's shoe was touching his.
Not by accident.
Definitely not by accident this time.
Shaoshang slowly raised his gaze.
Yuan Hong was reading a document.
His face remained completely calm.
Shaoshang stared.
The corner of Yuan Hong's mouth twitched.
Shaoshang felt heat rush all the way to the tips of his ears.
Cute, someone might have thought.
Ashamed, Waner would have said.
Shaoshang personally would have called it another experimental result.
And if he spent more than an hour in his dressing room again the next morning, carefully selecting a dark-blue robe, a pale collar, and a silver hairpin, that proved nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
He simply knew what worked now.
And if Zhao Shaoshang was going to do something well, he did it properly.
Especially when Yuan Hong was watching.