Archive of Our Own

Sheng Shaoyou believed he had learned several extraordinarily important things over the past few years. First, running an international corporation was considerably easier than convincing a three-year-old that he could not bring a live turtle onto an airplane. Second, having an Enigma for a husband meant that every notion Sheng Shaoyou had ever entertained about who ought to have the final say in their marriage belonged in the trash, preferably alongside his old collection of outrageously expensive yet utterly impractical watches. Third, and perhaps most importantly, Hua Yong was utterly, hopelessly, incurably insane, and Sheng Shaoyou had to come to terms with the fact that not only had he knowingly married this man, he had also willingly allowed him to become the father of his child. The last discovery was hardly new. Sheng Shaoyou had suspected as much for a long time, practically since the moment he realized that all those chance encounters, innocent smiles, and seemingly spontaneous coincidences that had brought them together had considerably less to do with fate than with an exceptionally meticulous plan. Even so, there were moments when Hua Yong found entirely new ways of reminding him just how far he strayed from any definition of a normal, reasonable human being.

Like now. There were times when Sheng Shaoyou wondered whether he had ever truly been in control of anything, or whether he had merely spent years surrounding himself with people sensible enough to let him believe he was. In a household where a three-year-old boy had an opinion on absolutely everything and his other father could get his way with a single gentle look, that particular illusion never survived for very long.

"Peanut, sweetheart, why is there a turtle in Daddy's suitcase?"

The three-year-old boy, who had inherited Sheng Shaoyou's eyes, Hua Yong's smile, and both parents' complete disregard for other people's boundaries, looked at him with an expression of such perfect innocence that Sheng Shaoyou immediately grew suspicious.

"Because he's coming with us."

"No, he isn't."

"Hua Yong said he could."

Sheng Shaoyou turned his head very slowly. Hua Yong, sitting on the edge of the bed and checking something on his phone, did not even look up. He wore a pale shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair was still slightly damp from his morning shower. He looked exactly like a man who had absolutely nothing to do with smuggling turtles across international borders.

"I said he could go on vacation when he was older," he explained calmly.

Peanut frowned.

"The turtle is old."

"Not that old, sweetheart."

Sheng Shaoyou closed his eyes. They were supposed to leave in forty minutes. This was meant to be their first proper family vacation in almost two years, and he already needed a vacation from his vacation. Yet when he glanced at the suitcase, with its little green shell sticking out, he could not suppress a smile. A few years ago, the wasted time would have irritated him more than anything else; now he was discovering that some delays simply did not matter, and that there was a kind of chaos whose absence would hurt more than exhaustion ever could. The real catastrophe would be a house so quiet that he never had to explain to anyone why turtles were not allowed to fly on airplanes.

The idea of traveling to Country P had come about almost by accident, during one of those rare Sundays when Sheng Shaoyou did not have to answer calls from the board, Hua Yong had no urgent meetings, and Peanut, after an exceptionally exhausting morning spent trying to teach the family dog to fetch his own slippers, had fallen asleep on the sofa between them. Sheng Shaoyou remembered that afternoon with surprising clarity, perhaps because in recent years he had increasingly caught himself realizing that his most important memories had nothing to do with momentous events, business successes, or dramatic declarations, but with tiny, almost imperceptible moments when no one expected anything of him. Hua Yong had been sitting beside him, his head resting on Sheng Shaoyou's shoulder as he scrolled through old photographs on his phone, when Peanut, still half asleep, asked why Papa used to have a different house.

The question was innocent, but Hua Yong fell silent for a moment. Sheng Shaoyou felt his husband's fingers, which had been absently tracing his wrist, go still. He knew this particular sort of silence by now. Hua Yong had several, and each meant something different: the silence before trouble, the silence in which he was plotting something exceptionally dangerous, and the much rarer kind when memories caught up with him faster than he could arrange a suitable mask.

"Because I used to live very far away from here," he finally answered, running a hand through his son's hair.

"Far like Grandpa's house?"

"Much farther."

"Far like the moon?"

Hua Yong chuckled softly.

"Not quite that far."

Peanut considered this for a moment, then decided that if the place was not on the moon, it was evidently somewhere they could go.

"Then I want to see it."

And that was how Sheng Shaoyou, a man accustomed to making decisions about investments worth hundreds of millions, was defeated by a three-year-old who could not yet tie his own shoes properly. He did not regret it for a second. What astonished him was how effortlessly the hierarchy of important things in his life had shifted. Once, he had planned his free time as meticulously as a corporate merger; now, the most precious part of a Sunday could be the weight of a child's head on his knee and the warmth of Hua Yong's hand moving unconsciously over his wrist. He had not become less ambitious. He had simply learned that not everything he wanted to protect could be contained in documents bearing the Sheng Group seal. Country P was part of Hua Yong's story, one Sheng Shaoyou had never learned in its entirety. He knew about the family estates, the businesses, the years spent away from China, the education and all the events that had shaped the man now sitting beside him at the table, patiently cutting fruit into pieces small enough that Peanut would not attempt to swallow them whole. He knew the facts, dates, and names. He knew where Hua Yong had lived, what he had done, and what decisions he had made before their paths had truly crossed.

What he did not know was what Hua Yong's lonely evenings had looked like. He did not know what he did when he did not have to pretend to be anyone. He did not know what version of himself Hua Yong had been before Sheng Shaoyou became part of his everyday life. He was about to find out. It was not jealousy over a life in which he had played no part. It was more a peculiar sadness at the thought that there had been mornings when Hua Yong woke in an empty house and evenings when he returned to it without knowing whether he would ever have someone with whom to share the simplest things. Sheng Shaoyou knew he could not change his husband's past. But he could learn to understand it instead of treating it as a chapter closed on their wedding day. Hua Yong's estate in Country P stood on the outskirts of the city, at the end of a long driveway lined with trees whose names Sheng Shaoyou did not know and had no intention of learning until Peanut asked whether dragons grew on them. The house itself was large, elegant, and furnished with Hua Yong's characteristic attention to detail, which in practice meant that everything looked as though it had been designed specifically to make Sheng Shaoyou think it beautiful. Light-colored walls, dark wood, tall windows admitting the afternoon sunshine, and soft carpets upon which Peanut immediately decided to race toy cars created a space that was both luxurious and surprisingly cozy.

Sheng Shaoyou noticed something else, however. The house was almost unused. Not neglected, since the staff evidently maintained it regularly, but devoid of the small traces of daily life that made their own residence in China, despite all its expensive furniture and carefully chosen decorations, look like the home of an exceptionally wealthy family and a tiny terrorist. There were no abandoned toys here, no children's drawings stuck to the refrigerator, no Hua Yong sweater carelessly draped over the back of an armchair. There was not even the distinctive scent of their shared home, that difficult-to-describe mixture of coffee, children's shampoo, and pheromones that had become so natural to Sheng Shaoyou over the years that he noticed it only when it disappeared.

"You haven't been here in a long time?" he asked when Peanut ran off after one of the staff, determined to find the kitchen and establish whether cookies existed in Country P as well.

Hua Yong glanced around the living room.

"I had no reason to."

The answer was simple, almost indifferent, but Sheng Shaoyou already knew enough to hear everything his husband had left unsaid. Hua Yong had no family here he wanted to return to. No life he missed. Or perhaps, Sheng Shaoyou thought, studying the man's familiar profile, there had only ever been one thing he truly wanted, and that thing was now standing right beside him, wearing a wedding ring and entertaining exceptionally indecent thoughts about how good Hua Yong looked in travel trousers.

"Now you have a reason," he said, slipping an arm around his waist.

Hua Yong turned his head, and his gaze instantly softened in a way Sheng Shaoyou still considered dangerous to his dignity.

"I have two, actually."

"Three, if you count the turtle."

"The turtle stayed home."

"Peanut is going to need therapy."

"Peanut forgot about the turtle as soon as he saw the pool."

Sheng Shaoyou sighed. That, at least, was true. A delighted shout from Peanut was coming from the garden, most likely announcing his discovery of yet another object that under no circumstances should be thrown into the swimming pool. Sheng Shaoyou instinctively turned toward the sound, while Hua Yong smiled as though their son were the most predictable thing in the world. They were ridiculously alike in that respect: both willing to argue over the smallest details, both utterly defenseless against the same child's laughter.

He made the discovery on the third day. Not because he was looking for anything in particular. In fact, it all began with an exceptionally innocent attempt to find a spare phone charger, because Hua Yong had taken his own and then declared, without the slightest trace of guilt, that he did not know where he had put it. Sheng Shaoyou suspected sabotage. Ever since their arrival, his husband had displayed a disturbing determination to restrict his access to work emails, and although the prospect of spending several days without messages from the board was tempting, Sheng Shaoyou had no intention of letting anyone, not even an exceptionally handsome Enigma, decide when he was allowed to check his inbox.

His search led him upstairs to a hallway he had not yet explored. Most of the doors stood open, revealing more guest rooms, a small library, and a study, but at the far end was one room whose door was closed. Not locked. Just closed. Sheng Shaoyou pressed the handle. And then, for a very long moment, he could do nothing else. The first thing he saw was a painting. A large portrait, taking up almost the entire wall, depicted a young man sitting beside a café window, cup in hand and head tilted slightly as though listening to someone tell an exceptionally boring story. He wore a dark suit, his hair was brushed back, and he had that particular expression Sheng Shaoyou knew all too well because he saw it in the mirror every day when meeting people he considered complete idiots. It was him.

Of course it was him. Just much younger. Sheng Shaoyou took one step forward. Then another. And only then did he notice the other walls. Photographs. Dozens of photographs, carefully framed, sorted, and hung in neat rows. Some were large, almost artistic; others were small, resembling ordinary pictures taken on a phone from a distance. They showed Sheng Shaoyou in all manner of situations: leaving an office building, talking on the phone, standing beside a car, attending a banquet, sitting alone at a restaurant table, even bending over documents in a café whose name he could no longer recall. There were paintings, too. Pencil sketches. Watercolors. Small portraits on canvas. One entire wall depicted nothing but his hands. Sheng Shaoyou looked at them and then, very slowly, raised his own hand.

"What the..."

He did not finish. In one photograph he was in his twenties, standing outside the Sheng Group headquarters, clearly annoyed by the rain that had just begun to fall. In another he sat at a formal reception with a champagne glass in his hand, his face expressing polite interest in a conversation he was probably not listening to at all. Yet another showed him laughing so sincerely that for a moment Sheng Shaoyou could not remember the last time he had seen his own face look like that. Some photographs were blurred. Some had been taken from afar. A few showed only part of his figure. Yet they all shared one thing. These images displayed more than the care of a collector. Accustomed to judging people by what they tried to conceal from him, Sheng Shaoyou suddenly noticed the things that had escaped the artist's control as well: an uncertain pencil line, a layer of paint applied too heavily, tiny traces of corrections around the mouth. Hua Yong, who so rarely allowed himself any hesitation in front of others, had left evidence of it in plain sight here, as though the only place where he could be imperfect was a space devoted to the man he loved.

Someone had decided they were worth keeping. The thought was both flattering and unbearably heavy. Sheng Shaoyou knew what he looked like after a good day and after a sleepless night; he knew his flaws as well as his strengths. Yet he had never imagined that someone might see meaning in preserving gestures to which he himself attached no importance. Through someone else's eyes, he saw not a CEO, not an heir to a fortune, not even an Alpha, but a man who sometimes forgot to pay attention to how he held his cup. Sheng Shaoyou stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning in place, and for the first time in a very long while he did not know what to think. Hua Yong had loved him for years. That he knew. He also knew his husband's love had never been one of those simple, peaceful feelings that developed gradually, sensibly, and predictably. Hua Yong was capable of patience bordering on cruelty, of planning so detailed that Sheng Shaoyou sometimes wondered whether their first dinner together had also been mapped out in separate stages beforehand. He loved possessively, intensely, at times with almost terrifying intransigence, and yet could show tenderness so naturally that it seemed all his most dangerous instincts existed solely to protect whatever he had claimed as his own.

Sheng Shaoyou knew this side of Hua Yong. He accepted it. Sometimes, to his own embarrassment, he even found it extraordinarily attractive. But knowing someone had loved him for many years was one thing; standing in a room filled with physical evidence of that love and realizing that all the while he had been busy with work, family, successive relationships, and his own problems, somewhere far away there had been a man for whom even his fleeting smile was worth remembering was quite another. Sheng Shaoyou approached one of the paintings. It showed him asleep. He did not know when it had been made. He looked younger than he did now, but not quite as young as in the photographs near the door. He lay on a sofa, his head resting on a cushion, one hand dangling carelessly over the edge. The light fell across his face in an almost unreal way, emphasizing the line of his nose, his closed eyelids, and his slightly parted lips.

The painting was beautiful. Not because it depicted a beautiful man. Sheng Shaoyou had no shortage of confidence and knew perfectly well what he looked like. It was beautiful because someone had painted him as though even his sleep deserved to be immortalized. As though Sheng Shaoyou's very existence were extraordinary enough to warrant hours of work, patience, and attention. He felt a strange tightness in his throat. What moved him most was not how accurately his features had been captured, but how gently the artist had handled his vulnerability. There was no trace of mockery, triumph, or appropriation in the painting; there was light laid tenderly over closed eyelids and a patience Sheng Shaoyou had never learned to extend to himself. For a moment he imagined Hua Yong standing before a blank canvas in a strange, silent house, and that image hurt more than the sight of hundreds of portraits. It was not fear. Not quite emotion, either.

Something between the two, rather, a feeling so peculiar that for a moment he wanted to laugh at his own reaction. He had a husband. He had a child. He had a life he would not trade for any other. And yet only now was he beginning to understand how long Hua Yong must have spent imagining the things that had become ordinary to him.

"You found it."

The voice came from behind him. Sheng Shaoyou turned. Hua Yong stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. He did not look particularly surprised, but his gaze swept over the room before settling on Sheng Shaoyou, and for a moment he lost that usual, almost unbearable self-assurance that so often drove his husband to distraction.

"I found it," Sheng Shaoyou confirmed.

Hua Yong said nothing.

"Should I ask whether you have a collection of my hair, too?"

The corner of Hua Yong's mouth twitched.

"No."

"Teeth?"

"Shaoyou."

"Used tissues? Signed napkins? Glasses I've drunk from?"

"I didn't collect your teeth."

Sheng Shaoyou narrowed his eyes.

"You didn't answer the other questions."

Hua Yong finally smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. That was what made Sheng Shaoyou stop joking. Because suddenly he understood something else. Hua Yong was nervous. Not in any way that would have been visible to someone who did not know him as well. His posture remained relaxed, his voice calm, his expression almost indifferent. But the fingers resting against the doorframe were just a little too still, and his gaze kept returning to Sheng Shaoyou's face as though searching for an answer to a question he did not intend to ask. It was almost absurd. Sheng Shaoyou wanted to ask how a man capable of pushing the boundaries of other people's patience for years could now look as though he were awaiting a verdict. But he kept the question to himself, because beneath that composure he recognized something he did not want to hurt by accident: an embarrassment that had less to do with the paintings themselves than with the possibility that seeing them would expose too much of an old longing.

A man who could manipulate entire corporate boards, who made decisions capable of destroying someone else's career without blinking, who had not hesitated to turn Sheng Shaoyou's life upside down, now stood before him apparently afraid that a handful of old paintings might prove to be something his husband could not accept. Sheng Shaoyou felt something soften in his chest.

"How long?" he asked quietly.

Hua Yong did not answer immediately.

"You know how long."

"I'm not asking how long you've loved me. I'm asking how long you've been doing this."

Hua Yong's gaze shifted toward the oldest sketches.

"Since I learned to draw you from memory."

Sheng Shaoyou looked at him.

"From memory?"

"At first I needed photographs. Later, I didn't."

Hua Yong said it as casually as if he were talking about learning a new language or perfecting his skill with a musical instrument. As though there were nothing extraordinary about remembering another person's face so precisely that he could recreate it on canvas even when thousands of miles separated them. Sheng Shaoyou looked away. An open sketchbook lay on a small table. He picked it up. The first page showed his profile. The second, his hands. The third, his smile. The fourth contained a sketch of his eyes, with several small notes beneath it in Hua Yong's handwriting. He frowns when he's tired. He touches his cuff when he's irritated. His smile is different when he's truly happy. Sheng Shaoyou felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. He turned the page. He doesn't like bitter coffee, but he orders it during meetings. Another page. He always turns to look at children. One more.

He looked happy today. Beneath the last sentence was a date from many years ago. Sheng Shaoyou remembered that period. He had been young, ambitious, convinced the world existed primarily to be conquered. He had money, status, a future, and enough self-confidence not to notice when someone was watching him from across a room. He did not remember that day. To him it had been one of hundreds just like it. To Hua Yong, apparently, it had mattered enough to write down. Only then did the dates acquire meaning, too. They did not form a chronicle of shared experiences, but a peculiar calendar of absence, in which every chance encounter became an event capable of brightening weeks of loneliness. Sheng Shaoyou did not know whether he ought to feel moved or angry at time for having treated them so unequally. Probably both feelings were real.

"Were you lonely?" Sheng Shaoyou asked.

Hua Yong flinched almost imperceptibly.

"No more than usual."

The answer hurt more than it should have. Sheng Shaoyou closed the sketchbook.

"That isn't an answer."

"Shaoyou..."

"I'm not asking you to comfort me."

Hua Yong sighed softly. For a moment he looked as though he were considering turning the whole conversation into a joke, but in the end he stepped closer and stopped in front of one of the portraits.

"I didn't think of it that way," he said. "When you want something but know you can't have it, eventually you learn to make do with what's available. An encounter. A photograph. A few minutes of conversation. Sometimes just knowing you were doing well was enough for me."

Sheng Shaoyou watched him in silence.

"It sounds pathetic, doesn't it?"

"It sounds like something I should strangle you for."

Hua Yong chuckled softly.

"You've already tried."

"Clearly not hard enough."

This time Hua Yong's smile was genuine. But Sheng Shaoyou had no intention of letting him escape the conversation so easily. He stepped closer until only a few inches separated them, then raised his hand and touched his husband's cheek. Hua Yong immediately tilted his head, almost instinctively leaning into the gesture, and Sheng Shaoyou felt that familiar stab of tenderness that came whenever he realized how many contradictions one person could contain. Hua Yong could be ruthless, cunning, and dangerous. He could bend everyone around him to his will before anyone even realized he had started playing a game. And yet all Sheng Shaoyou had to do was reach out for that same man to close his eyes and lean toward him as though he had been waiting for exactly this his entire life.

"You're insane," Sheng Shaoyou said.

"I know."

"Completely devoid of common sense."

"I know that, too."

"I should be afraid of you."

Hua Yong opened his eyes. For a moment his expression was unreadable.

"Are you?"

Sheng Shaoyou considered his answer. Seriously. It would have been easy to laugh, kiss his husband, and make some cutting remark that would restore their usual balance. But a room full of photographs and paintings deserved more than a joke, and Hua Yong, who had hidden his feelings for so many years beneath layer after layer of patience and calculation, deserved an answer he would not have to analyze for some hidden meaning.

"No," he finally said. "But I do have one regret."

Hua Yong frowned.

"What?"

"That I didn't know sooner."

"Shaoyou..."

"If I'd known there was an idiot somewhere in the world painting my portraits and writing down when I smiled, perhaps I would have stopped wasting my time on people who couldn't even remember how I take my coffee a little sooner."

Hua Yong went still. Sheng Shaoyou smiled faintly.

"Although I'd probably have called the police first."

And then Hua Yong truly laughed. The kiss was supposed to be brief. At least that had been Sheng Shaoyou's original intention, since he remembered perfectly well that their three-year-old son was downstairs, along with several members of staff who presumably had enough work without having to wonder why the owners of the estate had disappeared upstairs for a suspiciously long time. Unfortunately, Hua Yong had never been a man content to accept only what was offered without a fight. When Sheng Shaoyou brushed their lips together, the Enigma immediately slipped an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss with the same shameless confidence that had been driving Sheng Shaoyou mad since the beginning of their acquaintance. His hand traveled slowly along his husband's back, coming to rest just above his hip, and the familiar scent of pheromones enveloped Sheng Shaoyou so naturally that for a moment he forgot everything except the warmth of the body pressed against his own.

That, too, was something Hua Yong had once been denied. The ability to kiss him without an excuse. To touch him without disguising his intentions. To draw him close and know that Sheng Shaoyou would not only stay but would willingly wrap his arms around his neck. The thought made him kiss his husband harder. Hua Yong made a soft, pleased sound.

"I should have shown you this room sooner," he murmured against his lips.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"You like it."

"I'm deeply concerned."

"Your pheromones suggest otherwise."

Sheng Shaoyou narrowed his eyes.

"Don't use my pheromones against me."

"Against you? Never."

Liar. And yet those small, shameless half-truths were now part of their intimacy. Sheng Shaoyou recognized them in the barely perceptible lift of Hua Yong's mouth and in that brief pause before an answer that no stranger would notice. What might once have resembled a dangerous game had become a language between them—provided neither ever forgot that the other could say enough at any moment. The most shameless liar Sheng Shaoyou had ever met. And yet when Hua Yong leaned in again, brushing his lips along his jaw, Sheng Shaoyou could not keep from smiling. He felt the warmth of his husband's hands through his shirt, the familiar weight of an arm around his waist, and the almost absurd pleasure of knowing that the man who had spent years making do with images now had the original standing right in front of him.

"Tell me something," he whispered.

"Hm?"

"In how many of these paintings am I naked?"

Hua Yong went still. Sheng Shaoyou pulled back a little.

"Hua Yong."

"That depends on what we're counting as a painting."

For several seconds, absolute silence reigned.

"What?"

"Do sketches count, too?"

Sheng Shaoyou opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, very slowly, looked toward the closed cabinet beneath the window. Hua Yong followed his gaze.

"No."

"What's in that cabinet?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"I'm your husband."

"Exactly."

Sheng Shaoyou turned his head. Hua Yong wore an expression of polite interest that was such an obvious attempt to conceal his guilt that Sheng Shaoyou felt a sudden surge of extraordinarily childish satisfaction.

"Open it."

"Shaoyou."

"Open the cabinet."

"We're on a family vacation."

"Exactly. And I intend to discover all the family secrets."

Hua Yong sighed.

"Some things are better left to the imagination."

Sheng Shaoyou grinned broadly.

"So there is something."

The cabinet contained three sketchbooks. Sheng Shaoyou opened the first. Looked. Closed it. Then looked at his husband with an expression Hua Yong evidently found enormously entertaining, because he immediately began to laugh.

"This isn't funny," Sheng Shaoyou declared.

"Isn't it?"

"This is anatomy."

"Very beautiful anatomy."

"It's my anatomy."

"I know."

"You had no right to know what I looked like without clothes!"

Hua Yong raised an eyebrow.

"It was a sketch from my imagination."

Sheng Shaoyou fell silent. He opened the sketchbook again. Examined the drawing. Then, very slowly, raised his eyes.

"Your imagination?"

"Yes."

"You have an exceptionally detailed imagination."

"I've always considered myself a talented man."

Sheng Shaoyou snorted with laughter before he could stop himself. It was ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous. He was standing in a room full of evidence of his husband's years-long obsession, holding a sketchbook containing some extremely daring interpretations of his own body, while the man responsible for all this madness looked as though he had just received a compliment on his artistic abilities.

"I should be outraged."

"You're welcome to be."

"I should confiscate all these drawings."

"You're welcome to try."

"I should..."

Hua Yong leaned over and kissed his cheek. Sheng Shaoyou broke off.

"...I should at least get a percentage of the sales."

Hua Yong burst out laughing. And that was precisely when the door flew open.

"DADDY!"

Peanut charged into the room with all the energy of a miniature hurricane, stopped dead at the sight of the walls, and opened his eyes wide.

"WOOOOOW!"

Sheng Shaoyou snapped the sketchbook shut. Hua Yong, the traitor, turned away to hide his smile. Peanut looked around.

"Daddy!"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Why are you everywhere?"

Sheng Shaoyou looked at his husband. Hua Yong looked at his son. For one brief, wonderful moment, neither of them knew what to say. Finally Hua Yong crouched in front of the boy.

"Because I really like looking at Daddy."

Peanut frowned.

"And me?"

"You, too."

"Then where are my pictures?"

Sheng Shaoyou covered his mouth with his hand. Hua Yong froze. Peanut folded his arms across his chest, adopting a stance so uncannily similar to the one Sheng Shaoyou assumed during particularly unpleasant board meetings that for a moment both parents could only stare at him in disbelief.

"Papa."

"Yes, Peanut?"

"That's not fair."

Sheng Shaoyou couldn't take it anymore. He laughed so hard that he had to lean against the wall. In the end, Peanut received a portrait of his own. Not one. Three. Hua Yong evidently had no intention of apologizing for expressing his love for his son with the same extravagance he brought to everything else. Sheng Shaoyou, who only moments before had considered himself the main subject of the entire room, now watched space on the walls give way to drawings of little hands and an ice-cream-smeared smile. He discovered that he liked this change more than he was prepared to admit. The first showed Peanut sitting on the grass, his cheeks smeared with ice cream. The second showed him asleep in Sheng Shaoyou's arms. The third was still unfinished, but Peanut immediately declared it the best because it also featured a turtle. Sheng Shaoyou watched as Hua Yong showed their son more sketches, patiently answering questions about colors, paintbrushes, and why Daddy looked upset in one of the paintings.

"Because Daddy gets upset quite often," Hua Yong explained.

Peanut nodded solemnly.

"Because Papa is naughty."

Sheng Shaoyou felt a surge of pride.

"Clever boy."

Hua Yong looked at both of them.

"I'm beginning to suspect a conspiracy."

"It runs in the family," Sheng Shaoyou replied.

Peanut, apparently satisfied with this explanation, returned to admiring the pictures. And Sheng Shaoyou, standing a little to one side, suddenly noticed something he had missed before. On the far wall, partially concealed by a tall bookcase, hung several newer photographs. They did not show a young Sheng Shaoyou. They were not from the days when Hua Yong had had to watch him from a distance. They were far more ordinary. In one, Sheng Shaoyou slept on the sofa with Peanut lying on his chest and a protective hand resting on the child's back. In another, he sat at the kitchen table, apparently trying to feed his son while Peanut enthusiastically smeared food all over his own face. Another showed all three of them in the garden on a summer afternoon Sheng Shaoyou did not remember as anything special. Hua Yong had his arms around him from behind. Peanut was laughing between them.

All three were looking in different directions. The photograph was blurry. Imperfect. Real. Sheng Shaoyou moved closer. A small note was tucked beneath the picture. He recognized Hua Yong's handwriting. Everything I ever wanted. The words were brief, written without embellishment, almost stark compared with the rest of the room. That only made them strike Sheng Shaoyou harder. Hua Yong could have captioned the photograph with any declaration, another promise, or something extravagantly beautiful; instead, he had chosen a sentence containing no more longing for the impossible, only the quiet recognition of something that had finally come within reach. For a moment he could not move. Because suddenly he understood that this room was not merely a monument to obsession. It was a record of waiting. Of years spent imagining things that seemed impossible and trying to preserve even a small part of the man Hua Yong loved with an intensity for which he had never found a reasonable outlet.

And now, at the end of that long story, there was a photograph of their family. There was no longer any need to imagine what a life together might look like. They had one. All those small, ordinary, sometimes irritating moments Sheng Shaoyou took for granted because he woke up to them every morning. Hua Yong no longer had to wonder what his smile would look like over breakfast. He saw it every day. He did not have to imagine how his voice would sound saying their child's name. He heard it every evening. He no longer had to paint a hand he could not touch. He could simply reach out his own. Sheng Shaoyou turned around. Hua Yong was now sitting on the floor with Peanut on his lap, showing him how to hold a pencil. The boy was trying to draw a turtle, though the result looked more like an exceptionally disgruntled potato with legs, and Hua Yong was praising him with the solemnity of a connoisseur appraising a great master's work.

Sheng Shaoyou felt a familiar warmth spreading beneath his ribs. It was strange. Truly strange. To be loved like this. To know that someone had carried his image inside himself for years before he had even earned the right to call him his own. To know that all those photographs, paintings, and sketches had come from a feeling so immense that at times it bordered on something dangerous. But it was not unpleasant. Not in the slightest. That did not mean Sheng Shaoyou suddenly considered all Hua Yong's decisions reasonable. He did not. He knew, however, that in their marriage love had never been about pretending the other person was simpler, gentler, or less complicated than he truly was. It was about seeing even the darker sides of the man he loved, being able to demand honesty—and still choosing, every day, the same table, the same bed, and the same arguments over the most absurd little things.

That evening, when Peanut had finally fallen asleep and the house had grown quiet, Sheng Shaoyou found Hua Yong on the balcony of their bedroom. The Enigma stood by the railing with a glass of water in his hand, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance. He wore a loose shirt and looked relaxed, but Sheng Shaoyou knew the set of his shoulders well enough by now to tell that his husband was still thinking about the afternoon's events. He approached without a word. Wrapped his arms around Hua Yong from behind. Rested his cheek between his shoulder blades. For a while they simply stood there, listening to the distant hum of cars and the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the night wind.

"You're not angry?" Hua Yong finally asked.

Sheng Shaoyou sighed.

"About what?"

"The room."

"Should I be?"

"Most people would find it disturbing."

"Most people didn't marry you."

Hua Yong chuckled softly. Sheng Shaoyou tightened his embrace a little.

"Besides," he added after a moment, "there's something extraordinarily satisfying about knowing that a man as arrogant as you spent half his life pining over pictures of me."

"I wasn't pining."

"You painted my hands."

"You have beautiful hands."

"You wrote down when I smiled."

"You have a beautiful smile."

"You drew me naked."

"You have a very beautiful..."

"Hua Yong."

The Enigma laughed louder. Sheng Shaoyou smiled against his back. They were silent for a little while. Then Sheng Shaoyou raised his head.

"Do you know what's strangest of all?"

"Hm?"

"That all this time, I thought I was the one who was hard to get."

Hua Yong turned around in his arms.

"You were."

"No. I was an idiot."

"That, too."

Sheng Shaoyou slapped him lightly on the arm. Hua Yong caught his hand and pressed it to his lips. The gesture was so familiar that Sheng Shaoyou barely noticed it anymore, but now, after seeing all those paintings, it had acquired an entirely new meaning. He remembered the sketches of his hands, the carefully reproduced lines of his fingers, the tiny creases at his knuckles, all those details Hua Yong must have watched for years without knowing whether he would ever be able to touch them for real. He brushed his thumb over his husband's cheek.

"You can take pictures of me now, you know."

Hua Yong raised an eyebrow.

"Really?"

"Without hiding."

"How generous of you."

"You can even ask me to pose."

"Oh?"

Sheng Shaoyou felt Hua Yong's gaze change almost instantly. He rolled his eyes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you've just found a new way to spend our entire vacation."

Hua Yong smiled slowly.

"You didn't say I couldn't."

Sheng Shaoyou pulled him closer.

"On one condition."

"Which is?"

"No new sketchbooks until you've painted something for Peanut."

Hua Yong considered that for a moment.

"That could take a few days."

"Excellent."

"And after that?"

Sheng Shaoyou leaned toward his ear.

"After that, you can paint me as I really look."

Hua Yong went still. Sheng Shaoyou smiled in satisfaction.

"No guessing."

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Hua Yong set down his glass. Very slowly.

"Shaoyou."

"Hm?"

"Are you sure you want to offer me that?"

Sheng Shaoyou lifted his chin.

"Afraid you're not up to the challenge?"

Hua Yong looked at him with an expression Sheng Shaoyou knew all too well. It was the expression of a man who had just been given permission to do something he had dreamed about for a very long time.

"Quite the opposite."

Sheng Shaoyou had just enough time to think that perhaps he should have specified the terms of his offer more precisely before Hua Yong wrapped his arms around his waist and kissed him with an enthusiasm that definitely did not bode well for a peaceful night. The next morning, Peanut found a new drawing on the table. It showed a turtle. A very beautiful turtle. With a tiny crown on its head. The boy was delighted. Sheng Shaoyou, meanwhile, sat at breakfast sipping his coffee and trying not to react to the fact that Hua Yong had been looking at him with the same satisfied smile for the past ten minutes.

"Stop it," he finally muttered.

"What?"

"Staring."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Hua Yong leaned across the table.

"I'm wondering whether I should start a new collection."

Sheng Shaoyou looked at him over the rim of his cup.

"What kind of collection?"

"Portraits of my husband."

"You already have hundreds of those."

"Those are from before we got married."

"And?"

Hua Yong smiled gently.

"He looks different now."

Sheng Shaoyou frowned.

"I've gotten old?"

"He's happier."

And that, Sheng Shaoyou thought, was utterly unfair. Because Hua Yong could spend most of the day behaving like the most shameless, manipulative, unbearable man in the world, and then he would say one simple sentence and suddenly Sheng Shaoyou would have no idea what to do with his own heart. Fortunately, Peanut saved the day.

"Papa!"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I want a collection, too!"

Hua Yong looked at his son in amusement.

"Of what?"

Peanut thought about it for a moment.

"Turtles."

Sheng Shaoyou closed his eyes. Hua Yong began to laugh. And somewhere between negotiations with a child about the number of turtles one could legally own and yet another attempt to convince his husband that he did not need an additional twenty-four hours to paint his portrait, Sheng Shaoyou came to the conclusion that perhaps this was what happiness looked like. Not a grand event. Not the fulfillment of every ambition. Not even the knowledge that someone had loved him so desperately that he had spent years trying to preserve his face in hundreds of paintings. But an ordinary morning at the table. With a child who wanted a turtle. With a husband who still looked at him as though seeing him for the first time. And with the absolute, unshakable certainty that this time Hua Yong would not have to paint their future together from his imagination. Because they had an entire lifetime ahead of them. And Sheng Shaoyou intended to make sure his husband remembered every moment of it.

Even if it meant buying another hundred sketchbooks. Especially if none of them had a turtle on the cover.