The room felt warmer now, perhaps from the long-closed door, or the lanterns seeming more numerous. Or maybe because Yan Xuan couldn't stop sweating.
Jin Feng laughed loudly, filling the space. The blue-clad woman beside him refilled his cup, and he downed it without hesitation. His face flushed, eyes gleaming, hands gesturing wildly as he spun a tale. Yan Xuan barely listened, ears ringing, vision unfocused.
The pink-clad woman to his right lifted the cup to his lips again. "Please, young master, have another. Don't be shy."
Yan Xuan shook his head weakly. "I... I've had enough."
"Not nearly," her voice dropped, softer. Her fingers brushed his hand's back, he nearly dropped the cup. "You're still too tense."
Yan Xuan drank again. The liquid slid down, less burning this time, but his head felt light. The room spun slightly, qin music from the corner sounding distant, as if underwater.
Jin Feng rise, stretching. "Ahh... I need fresh air. Xiao Yue, come with me."
The blue-clad woman followed, smile sweet but vacant.
"Jin Feng," Yan Xuan half-stood. "Wait, we..."
The pink-clad woman, whose name Yan Xuan just realized he didn't know, pressed his shoulder gently. "Young master, don't worry. We'll make you comfortable."
"But..." Yan Xuan glanced at the window, night had deepened, moon high. "We must return, if we're late..."
"Relax, enjoy yourself." Jin Feng grabbed his coin pouch, pulling two large silver ingots, heavier than before, tossing them onto the table with a loud clink. Both women eyed the coins, exchanging glances.
"For you," Jin Feng said, crooked smile on his face. "Serve my brother well."
Yan Xuan staggered up, head spinning. "Where are you going?"
"Not far, relax." Jin Feng clapped his shoulder hard, making Yan Xuan stumble. "Enjoy your night, Xuan. You deserve this."
Then he left, door closing. Yan Xuan stood alone. No, not truly alone, two women gazed at him with gentle smiles, eyes sparkling, something in their looks stirring his gut.
"Sit, young master," the green-clad woman said, tugging his arm lightly, leaving her qin in the corner.
Yan Xuan sat (more fell) back onto cushions, legs heavy, hands trembling. Both women sat closer now, one right, one left, arms brushing his.
"Young master," the pink-clad one said, voice like honey, sticky and sweet. "We haven't introduced ourselves. I'm Chuntao."
"And I'm Qinghe," the green one added.
Chuntao... Qinghe. Yan Xuan repeated the names in his head, trying to remember, but thoughts drifted.
"You must be someone important, yes?" Chuntao asked, fingers playing with his robe sleeve folds. "Fine clothes, smooth silk, surely a high official?"
Yan Xuan shook his head quickly. "No. I'm just..."
"No need to be modest," Qinghe smiled. "Are you a swordmaster? Government official? Army commander?"
Yan Xuan laughed bitterly, sound even he disliked. "No, I'm weak, even kitchen maids could beat me."
Chuntao clucked. "Impossible. Then a merchant? Rich trader?"
"No."
"War strategy? Politics?" Qinghe pressed.
Yan Xuan shook his head each time, chest growing heavier. Everything he couldn't do. Everything disappointing his father.
"Then what skill do you possess, young master?" Chuntao asked, curious, not mocking, eyes wide, face nearing.
Yan Xuan fell silent. Skilled at what? What could he do? In the palace, useless. In the ring, always losing. In lessons, slow. Everything, lacking.
"Painting," he answered quietly, ashamed. "I... only paint well."
Qinghe's eyes lit up. "Ah! A painter! That's remarkable, young master. Art's a rare, extraordinary gift."
But Yan Xuan felt no pride; painting didn't protect the realm. Didn't make Father proud, just brush strokes.
"But where I'm from," Yan Xuan continued, words spilling unbidden, perhaps from wine, perhaps exhaustion, "no one cares what I can do. They only see... I'm useless."
Silence fell briefly, qin music stilled, but its echo lingered. Chuntao touched his cheek, warm and soft. "That's cruel judgment. No one born useless, young master."
"And tonight," Qinghe whispered in his left ear, breath tickling skin, "you're the most extraordinary man in this room."
Yan Xuan's heart pounded hard, too hard. Chuntao poured more wine till the cup brimmed, nearly spilling. "Come, young master. Forget the outside world. Tonight, only us."
Yan Xuan drank. Fifth cup? Sixth? Head lighter. Room spun gently, but not unpleasantly. Rather... comfortable, like floating.
Qinghe took a small plate of dried fruit, feeding one to his lips. Sweet, sticky, fingers brushing his mouth briefly, something exploding hot in his gut, churning, strange.
"You're so sweet, young master," Chuntao said, giggling. "Like a child."
"I'm not a child," Yan Xuan protested, voice weaker than intended.
"We know," Qinghe whispered. Her hand touched his shoulder, sliding slowly to chest. Light touch over fabric, but Yan Xuan felt every inch. "You're grown."
Yan Xuan's breath caught, hands clenched tight in lap unknowingly, nails digging palms.
Chuntao joined, hand on his arm, massaging gently from shoulder to elbow to wrist. Warm, soft touch, yet something making Yan Xuan tense and relax simultaneously.
"Your muscles too tight, young master," Chuntao murmured. Fingers trailed to thigh. Just above knee, enough to stop his breath.
"I..." Yan Xuan didn't know what to say. Mind blank, only warm softness. Heart thundering in ears.
Qinghe undid her hair bun, long locks cascading over shoulders, fresh floral scent spreading. She leaned closer, lips nearly touching his ear. "What do you want, young master?"
Yan Xuan didn't know. Didn't know what he wanted. But his body knew, body screaming.
Chuntao laughed softly, hand sliding higher now, inner thigh. Yan Xuan startled but didn't pull away, couldn't.
"Young master," Qinghe whispered, fingers lifting his chin, making him meet her eyes. Round, dark, deep. "We're here for you."
Yan Xuan swallowed. Throat dry, lips trembling. Then Chuntao pressed gently.
Not hard, just light shoulder pressure, but Yan Xuan didn't resist. Body fell back, back hitting silk cushions, head sinking into softness.
Ceiling spun, lanterns swaying. Warm breath on his face. Chuntao and Qinghe gazed down, silhouettes like shadows ringed in warm lantern glow.
Hair framing faces, but eyes shining. "Relax, young master," Chuntao whispered.
Yan Xuan didn't move, couldn't. Breath short, heart pounding shaking whole body.
For the first time in eighteen years, Yan Xuan thought not of father, not palace. Not boring, humiliating life.
Only warmth, touch, sensation burning through him. Sensation unnamed, but he wanted more.
Qinghe smiled softly, but something dangerous lurked within.
"Welcome, young master," she whispered gently, "to earthly paradise."
And Yan Xuan's world changed forever.
**